


Even Death Won't Part Us Now

by SpartanGuard



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hamilton References, Inspired by West Side Story, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25898935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpartanGuard/pseuds/SpartanGuard
Summary: Two covens, both alike in dignity, / In fair New York, where we lay our scene, / From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, / Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes / A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life; / Whole misadventured piteous overthrows / Do with their death bury their sires' strife. (Captain Swan + West Side Story + vampires. But not as sad. Probably.)
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 28
Kudos: 39
Collections: Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2020





	1. Overture

There's a lot of romanticizing when it comes to vampires. The eternal youth, the perfect looks and body, the heightened senses—all are excellent perks. 

But no one mentions the absolute mania when a vampire is new. Suddenly, everything is brighter, sharper, clearer, louder, smellier, more detailed than before, and it's a sensory overload—it's impossible to hear your own racing thoughts over the cacophony of everything else. 

So you try to run, but that's a whole other revelation—where to run when you never tire? When adrenaline is pumping so hard that it would probably be easy to scale a skyscraper? (At least it would be quiet up there, right?) And when your new instincts are telling you to find people—to find food—but the thought of being near all those scents and sounds is enough to turn your stomach and make you lose your last meal as a human. 

(Except you already did that—when you somehow managed to fight back against the asshole who turned you and accidentally shoved him into the jagged point of the wood that used to be your dresser and watched him bleed out in front of you until nothing was left but gore and dust.)

Which brings you back to running, but it doesn’t take you far—not until you’re crashing into a pair of arms that are far too strong (inhumanly so) and are somehow connected to a pair of unnaturally blue eyes that you briefly drown in so deep that nothing else about this individual registers. And the whole thing is so surreal you wonder if it’s even real, or just a mania-induced hallucination.

Regardless, you somehow end up at the doorstep of who might be the nicest people who have ever walked the earth (and they’ve walked it for quite a while, and people probably isn’t the best description, not anymore) and memories of your ocean-eyed savior get pushed to the back of your mind. Because, in case you hadn’t figured it out yet, this couple confirms what your wildest thoughts were telling you:

You’re a vampire now.

Welcome to eternity.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

**2005**

Killian Jones let out a completely unnecessary sigh as he watched the door close behind the fledgling. Honestly, he was lucky he got there when he did; any later, and the newbie would have likely gone full mad, risking not only the safety of any mortals nearby, but also exposure of their world. 

That, and Gold probably would have killed him. For real this time. (It had been threatened often enough that it was likely empty, but after nearly 250 years, Killian knew what the beast was capable of—what had put him in this position in the first place—and therefore knew not to write off the possibility completely.)

It had been a fairly routine assignment: take out Walsh, one of the most conniving members of the Coroza coven with a penchant for turning his mortal girlfriends, and take out said girlfriend if he had turned her.

Killian hadn’t managed to get there in time to prevent the transition—Walsh’s paramour, one Emma Swan, apparently didn’t want to be found—and by the time he’d arrived on the scene, the freshly-turned vampire had already managed to kill the idiot, but was in shock.

He caught her in the alley behind the apartment building; despite their hysteria, new vampires are relatively weak compared to elder statesmen like him, so it wasn’t hard to subdue her.

And he should have ended her right there. He had a blade on him; it would have been incredibly easy to put it through her heart and let her wither away.

But there was something in those bright green eyes of hers—something behind the fear and anger and madness—that made him stop. It was familiar, but like a long ago memory; he couldn’t place it, but it was enough for him to second guess her elimination.

He couldn’t bring her back to Aurum, though. He’d spent too many years working his ways up the ladder to be accused of succumbing to a pretty face and disobeying direct orders from Gold. If he could hide her, though…

He knew a couple from Coroza who lived not far away. Despite being on different sides of this rivalry, he knew them to be respectable, and wouldn’t turn away a new vampire in need of some stability.

It was hard to tell if Emma was aware of it, but he quickly scooped her up and ran the few blocks to the Nolan’s Hell’s Kitchen townhouse, depositing the girl on the front stoop, buzzing the doorbell, then dashing off across the street as fast as possible (the blink of an eye to the average mortal). He was deep in the shadows of an alley when he saw the door open, Emma guided in, and then both the door and the case were closed. 

Which only left one thing: what to tell Gold. Outright lying wouldn’t work; but perhaps a white one would cover it. 

That was what he went with when he returned to the man’s penthouse in Chelsea. “It’s all taken care of, Mr. Gold,” he’d assured his boss—a rather reptilian man he’d long ago started referring to as “Crocodile” in his head and had somehow managed not to slip in the ensuing centuries. 

“Fantastic; always good to hear, Mr. Jones,” Gold said, rising from his throne-like chair in his office. “I know that it’s a bit soon, but I do have another assignment for you, if you’re amenable,” he continued. (It was a bit sadistic for Gold to act as if Killian had any choice in the matter; it was nigh impossible to go against an order from your sire, though Killian had long ago figured out how to work the system—and Gold’s typical vagueness—in his favor; this order might be too direct for that, though.) “It’s in England, and I want you to go tend to some business of mine. It might take a while. I don’t trust anyone else to handle this; please go and be my representation.”

“Of course, sir,” he answered respectfully, having figured out how to hide the resentment in his voice many decades ago.

“Splendid. I’ll see to it that your affairs here are tended to in the meantime. Enjoy your trip.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Not an hour later, he was at LaGuardia (because apparently Gold was too much a cheapskate to pay for him to fly direct out of JFK), in line with luggage, passport, prosthetic hand, and one-way ticket to London. One perk to never sleeping was that taking a red-eye flight didn’t affect him much; but that didn’t make getting through security any less painful—thus, the false hand rather than his preferred hook. (Also annoying: having a layover in Chicago—in the opposite direction, seriously; he should have paid himself.)

He at least let himself zone out once they were off the ground at O’Hare; he didn’t actually sleep but he could at least rest. 

He let the sounds of the plane lull him into something of a hypnotic state, but one thing persisted in his mind’s eye: those green eyes, and whatever it was that sucked him in. 

(They would do that often over the next several years.)

It wasn’t until he was lumbering up the jetway at Heathrow that he realized what it was: the look one got after being left alone. It’d been years since he’d seen it, but it used to stare back at him in his own reflection. (Which, as the polished metal of the luggage carousel reminded him, he hadn’t seen in centuries.)

Hopefully, she wouldn’t have that anymore. Too bad he couldn’t (ever) say the same.


	2. The air is humming, and something great is coming...

**2020**

The sun was setting on another day, just like it had for the last 5000-plus. At least, Emma figured the number was up there; she’d stopped counting around day 4,588. Which was really an absurdly long time to count considering her days were no longer numbered, but old habits died hard, even if she never would.

She’d accepted that fact somewhere around day 4,040, which ironically was her 40th birthday. But instead of dealing with gray hairs and wrinkles and aching joints, she was still in her 28-year-old body, fairly spry and with exactly one white hair blended into her blonde. (Not that she could see it in the mirror anymore—or, you know, anything—but she knew it was there and that was all that mattered.)

She knew she’d finally settled into her new life when she was looking forward to drinking the deer blood she had at home and not longing for chocolate cake like she had the past several birthdays. Well, she still wished she could eat it—real food didn’t digest properly anymore—but the blood sounded just as good.

“It probably took me about that long to come to terms with it, too. Longer for your dad,” her mom had told her about the revelation.

That had been another epiphany: that the kindly undead couple she’d somehow ended up on the doorstep of—David and Snow Nolan—were her parents. Her actual birth parents. You know, the ones she’d been looking for her entire mortal life? (Had once dreamed would save her from one shitty foster home after another until she finally gave up hope, and instead turned to counting the days until she moved again?)

As it turned out, they’d been attacked and turned shortly after she’d been born—which apparently had been in a backwoods cottage in Maine that her grandparents had owned—and were taking her to the hospital for checkup after the fact. They didn’t trust themselves to face their new reality while also in charge of an infant (an infant with delicious-smelling blood, no less—creepy, but true) and so finished the journey to the hospital, but left her there alone.

Coming to terms with that had taken 1,187 days. There would have been lots of tears, were any of them able to cry; but instead, there was just a lot of emotion, which Emma had never dealt well with. But she was getting better. Who knew the kind of personal growth one could achieve after death? And it was a good lesson in how to handle (or not handle) things should the son she herself gave up ever manage to track her down.

(She looked—once, before she was turned. All she’d been able to find out was that he ended up in the foster system, too. She just hoped he was having a better time of it than she did. Well, had—he’d be an adult by now, wouldn’t he? Damn.)

So. Anyways. Sunset. Which Emma was watching from the roof of their building, which had become something of a refuge for her over the past 15 years. She had her own bedroom, but after so long on her own, being an adult suddenly under the same roof as her parents (who, despite being physically younger than her, still acted like her parents) was a bit stifling at times.

It wasn’t much, but it was her own space: she’d cobbled together a tent with some reclaimed tarps, filled with gently-used cushions, and on nice nights, would bring out a sleeping bag and let the lights and sounds of the city wash over her. It had been overwhelming at first—she kind of envied that her parents only had to deal with forest smells when they turned, and not the incredible everything of New York—but it had dulled over time, which she probably should have expected; it had only taken her a week or so to get used to the smell the first time, right?

That’s to say—the overwhelmingness did; she learned to tune things out and let them fall to the background. But her senses themselves were the sharpest they’d ever been, consequently making her even better at her job than she’d been pre-death. Having ethereal beauty compared to a mere mortal easily drew in most of her targets; her preternatural sight, hearing, and strength made it pretty simple to track them down and subdue them (she loved it when they ran); and she’d found out they were extra willing to comply with her demands when they were down a bit of blood. (It probably was connected to the whole your-sire-can-control-you thing but it didn’t last once they’d recovered from the blood loss and it kept her from murdering random ne'er-do-wells on the street; the lower a body count a vampire kept, the better.)

On a normal night, she’d be getting ready to catch another skip: either gussying up for a honeytrap, revving up her old Bug for a stakeout, or trying to track them down on Tinder while binging Netflix in the background (they kept up on technology...for the most part; she still wasn’t sure what a TikTok was). One thing a lot of the stories leave out is that it takes a long time to build up the kind of wealth and decadence you see with old vampires; even Emma’s parents still had to work, 40-odd years into this thing (David was an after-hours vet and Snow taught night school) and their townhouse was  _ not  _ rent-controlled. 

Of all the vampire media out there, their existence was far more  _ What We Do In The Shadows _ than  _ Twilight _ .

(Emma had always preferred comedy anyways.)

God, she was really getting sidetracked tonight. Anyways. No one was working because it was the anniversary of her being turned—her rebirthday, so to speak—and her mom was very much Leslie Knope when it came to anniversaries, but especially this one, given that it marked them finally coming together as a family.

That, and they were all going to get drunk.

“My class is a bunch of assholes this semester—I need this,” Snow had gushed earlier that week, grading papers behind their blackout curtains. (Vampires didn’t sparkle, thank god—at least, not without the help of glitter—but they were dangerously susceptible to sunburns, so the whole pale thing was accurate.) “And David—you’ve worked every weekend the last month; they can definitely operate without you for one night.”

“I put in for it a month ago, dear,” he tutted as he gathered the laundry, placing a kiss on her cheek as he went. 

They were definitely one of those nauseatingly cute couples, so it was a good thing Emma’s gag reflex was dormant. And, though she’d never admit it, she was a bit jealous that they’d been able to find—and keep—something that had evaded her her entire mortal life, and likely would for her afterlife, too.

Every now and then, a flash of blue eyes blinked into her vision; the same pair she’d seen on the night she transitioned. She still wasn’t sure they were real, and her parents genuinely knew nothing when she’d asked, so she never did again. The fact that she hadn’t ever seen them again, despite knowing just about all the vampires in this part of town (for better or worse), had her pretty convinced it was a mania-induced hallucination. But damn, was it a good one.

“Emma, are you ready?” Snow’s voice pulled Emma from her daydreams (nightdreams?). “It’s time to go,” she shouted—not loud enough to annoy the neighbors, but enough for Emma to hear.

“Coming,” she replied, then took one last glance at the night sky. Maybe there was something different in the stars? She didn’t know; she just had this feeling that something was going to change tonight. 

She brushed her hands down the skirt of her light pink dress; it wasn’t what she’d usually wear, but since this wasn’t her typical honey trap, she’d borrowed a dress from Snow. It was definitely sweeter than her taste, with its pastel color and A-line skirt, but just cut low enough to not be demure. Her high ponytail fell somewhere in between. Her fangs would probably take it in another direction, but it’s not like she was going to pose for photos—she only just showed up in those.

In a moment, she was back in the house, grabbing her purse and joining her parents (who equally straddled the line of sweet and seductive; it was a vampire thing). 

Out of nowhere, a flash of light blinded her. “Seriously?” she cursed, blinking away the temporary blindness, only to see her mother holding a Polaroid camera. That was the one thing that could document them; thank god the hipsters over in Greenwich Village had clung to them.

Snow just grinned and shook the picture while David lectured, “It’s not like we got to see you off to prom or anything.”

“Yeah, but are you going to do this every year?”

“Yes,” Snow stated matter-of-factly, smiling at the photo before setting it aside. “Now come on; there’s a bloody mary calling my name.”

“Where are we going?” 

“That new underground club at 43rd and 10th. Figured we should try it, and it should be trouble-free.”

‘Trouble’ meaning the Aurum coven. Emma still hadn’t figured out the reason for this centuries-long blood feud, but she did know that she’d been dragged in on the side of Coroza, under a woman named Cora; turns out Walsh had been one of her cronies. And it normally wouldn’t affect her, save for the fact that her parents were turned by someone in Aurum (led by the mysteriously mononymed Gold) and that had dangerous implications, not to mention the rising tensions between the two groups as they began to encroach on each other (and each other’s feeding grounds) on the Upper West Side. 

“You sure? That’s awfully close.” 43rd had become an arbitrary border between the two factions, and there had been more than a few skirmishes while people were on the prowl for a midnight snack. She’d had a couple close calls of her own while tracking down skips in the part of town, but had somehow managed to evade notice.

“It’s on our side of the street,” her mom shrugged in response and grabbed her purse.

(Why one side couldn’t just move to another part of town, Emma didn’t know, but she was definitely aware of how stubborn vampires could be. And she wasn’t going to move; there’s no way they’d be able to get a place like this anywhere else for a reasonable price.)

She’d hardly gotten out the door when a familiar scent caught her nose—and not necessarily a welcome one: Graham.

“Uh, hi, Emma,” he stammered, while giving her a shy yet adorable grin.

“Hey,” she answered back, not meeting his eyes—and instead finding Snow’s, who was intently studying the sky. Snow had been trying to get the two of them together for at least 10 years, and while Graham was a great guy, a good friend, and handsome to boot, Emma had never been attracted to him like that. A fact that seemed to keep falling silent on Snow’s ears despite her enhanced hearing. 

(His blue eyes were pretty, but they weren’t the pair that kept haunting her.)

Given the sudden awkwardness that settled over the group—because that was apparently something you had to deal with whether you were dead or alive—it was up to Emma to break it. Not that she had any skill in that department.

“Alright, uh, let’s go,” she said with little confidence, and set off towards the club, with the others falling in behind her; Graham stayed close and if she wasn’t mistaken, attempted to put an arm around her, but she walked a bit faster to avoid his reach. The bar was only a few blocks away, which they could normally cover in less than a minute, but they had decided to blend in with the crowd tonight; it was nice to be normal every now and then.

But still—every now and then, the hairs on the back of Emma’s neck rose, and it had nothing to do with Graham’s proximity. Something was coming; she just didn’t know what. 

That wasn’t for her to worry about tonight, though. Tonight was for fun and drinks and dancing. And once they got to the darkly-lit club, that’s what she focused on for the next hour or so—

—Until her gaze locked with the blue eyes from her dreams.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Killian took a deep breath as soon as he exited the jetway—and immediately regretted it. He didn’t know why he expected LaGuardia to have changed at all in the past 15 years. Despite all the reconstruction, it still smelled the same: of old coffee, questionable sushi, and stale humans. (The latter was a double-edged sword: despite eating shortly before he got to Heathrow, there had been a few delays before takeoff and he was feeling rather peckish now, although nothing here seemed appetizing. Which was probably something he had in common with mortals at the moment.)

He didn’t know why he’d assumed that he might have been routed through JFK this time—why would he think Gold would care enough to properly welcome home his best operative from abroad after 15 years?—but he tried to push that ire to the back of his mind as he summoned an Uber.

At least the delays meant he landed just as the sun was setting; his previous plan had been to hang around the terminal until dusk, so at least this prevented any awkward encounters with some overtalkative Midwesterner on their way back to Cleveland. Signs pointed him to the ride share lot, and a gentleman named Marco was waiting to take him home.

On the ride into the city, he marveled at how New York always seemed like a living, breathing thing, constantly evolving and changing. He could still sharply remember the dusty bustle of the town more than 200 years ago, the sound of carriages running over dirt and cobbled streets. He’d watched as the city grew, sprawling both across and beyond the Manhattan island and up into the sky, the smell of horses and people and sweat replaced by the acrid stench of exhaust (although, even his extra-sensitive nose had gotten used to it in short order). 

So it was both surprising and not to see how much the city had changed even in the last 15 years, most noticeably in the skyline: the Twin Towers were still fresh in everyone’s memory when he’d left, so to see the new One World Trade Center in their place was a bit jarring. But the sun still glinted golden off the skyscrapers the same way; pedestrians still hardly waited for the crossing signals to give the okay to go; and though he wasn’t in a yellow cab, a language barrier still lay between him and his driver. 

Cash tips were understandable to all, though, which Killian handed over once they’d arrived at his apartment building on 34th—the Chelsea side. He’d owned his flat since the building was constructed, which was fairly impressive, but did require him to occasionally change the name on the paperwork lest anyone notice anything suspicious. 

(Someone had figured out at some point that it was helpful to have an ally in both the Social Security office and the DMV; Archie and Jefferson traded off every 20 years or so in order to help create revolving identities for the members of the vampire community. The name on his ID at the moment was Kyle Johnson, and during the past 100 or so years since he’d been required to have one, he’d also been Killian James, Ian Joseph, and—though he had to admit, he’d picked this one just to see if he could get away with it—James Hook.)

And thankfully, he’d had a reliable roommate for the past 80 years. “Honey, I’m home,” he called out after braving the still-shaky lift to the top floor.

“About bloody time,” Robin called back from the couch. “You know I had dinner ready for you before you left?”

“Ha,” Killian answered. “I’d hate to see what that looks like after all this time.”

“Oh, I let him go. And good thing, too—he ended up writing  _ Hamilton _ .”

Killian had barely poked his head into his musty bedroom before he returned to the living room. “You didn’t actually have Lin-Manuel Miranda in here, did you?” To most people’s surprise, Killian was a bit of a theater nerd; the West End was great, but he was looking forward to catching up on Broadway again. 

“No. But maybe that’s a good strategy if we want to get tickets.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

His stomach grumbled in agreement.

Robin chuckled. “There’s a bottle in the fridge you can have; figured you’d be hungry when you got back.”

Killian tossed his luggage in his room and emerged again. “Have I ever mentioned that I love you?”

“Maybe a few times over the past several decades.”

He downed the bottle quickly; the black blood market never gave the best stuff—considering the type of mortals who would be willing to sell their blood for money and didn’t qualify to sell plasma—but it hit the spot in a pinch, and every now and then had something good. This definitely wasn’t, but it sated his thirst long enough to take a shower and wash the airplane off of him.

As he stared at the fogged mirror with nothing looking back at him, rubbing his palm over his permanently well-trimmed scruff, he realized he hadn’t yet checked in with Gold. Even if he’d spent the last decade-plus doing the man’s bidding from abroad, it was still easy to forget about him.

Well, mostly—until he glanced back down at his blunted left wrist. Then it just brought ancient memories to the surface, as fresh as the day they’d happened, no matter how many centuries had intervened.

Which reminded him: he was still missing something. He shot off a quick missive to Gold as he pulled some clothes out of his depressingly dated closet (having left anything more modern in a consignment shop in London), managing to put together something vaguely timeless. But before he dressed, he turned his attention on the nightstand drawer.

He slowly pulled it open, though he knew what would be inside: his hook, as sturdy and sharp as ever, with its well-worn leather brace. Sure, he had a fairly modern prosthetic hand—one that TSA didn’t mind so much—but the hook had come first, and was definitely his preferred artificial appendage. He hadn’t meant to go so long without it, but then again, he hadn’t expected his London assignment to take so long. 

(Although, 15 years to him was roughly the same as 2 or 3 to the average mortal.)

Slipping on the soft leather was like greeting an old friend (well, another one, albeit he’d known this one longer than Robin). And snapping in the hook settled a part of him that he hadn’t realized had been adrift all these years. It didn’t fully still the odd sense of anticipation he’d had ever since he landed, but he definitely felt more at ease.

With that settled, he finished dressing and then headed back to the living room and flopped on the sofa next to Robin. “When did we get a new couch?” he asked indignantly, inspecting the unfamiliar upholstery.

“As soon as you left.”

“And what was so wrong with the previous one?”

“It was from the 70s! It was hideous and uncomfortable and you know it.”

Killian could only sigh; Robin was completely right. 

“Anyways,” Robin continued. “We’ve plenty of time to argue about furniture but very little to decide what we’re doing tonight.”

“Why? What’s tonight?”

“You arrive back in North America for the first time in a decade and a half and you think that’s not a reason to celebrate?”

“Well, I was in Toronto a few years ago.”

“Still the Commonwealth. Doesn’t count. What do you want to do? There are quite a few people anxious to see you.” 

Well that’s good for them, he thought, but he wasn’t so sure of the same. The time away in the UK had definitely made him reconsider some of his connections back here in the States; getting away from the drama with Coroza had made him realize how petty he found it all. Though he’d never be completely extricated given that Gold was his sire, he’d definitely be alright with staying distant from the other frivolous disputes.

(And after spending a bit too much time in Brighton—particularly with some headstones bearing the name Jones and some rather divy taverns that were still somehow open all these centuries later—he wished more than ever to be free of Gold’s influence. Alas.)

He supposed he could placate them for one night, though; it’s not like he was going to sleep anyway. “Are there any new clubs to check out?”

“For you—plenty. For all of us...aye, there’s one that’s just opened up about...10 blocks away? Ish?”

“In which direction?”

“Up, but kind of midtown so it should be in the clear.” Meaning no one from Coroza would be there.

“Sounds fine, then,” he replied; after so many years, every club started to feel the same, but he was willing to give it a shot. 

It wasn’t long before he found himself dressed in a waistcoat and slacks that were trendy a decade ago, hoping his hair was styled appropriately (he stopped caring about 130 years ago), and waiting outside the apartment building of Robin’s girlfriend Regina.

“Jones, it’s the 21st century; why do you still have a fish hook on the end of that arm?” she greeted when she emerged from the tower, with a young vampire behind her. 

“It’s nice to see you too, Regina,” he tossed back. They’d known each other for well over a couple hundred years and this was just how they communicated. Nodding at the young man, he continued, “Who’s this?”

“This is Henry; he’s new.” The statement was matter-of-fact enough that Killian knew she wouldn’t say anything else. But he seemed friendly, albeit nervous, and Gold never complained about new vampires on their side—just Coroza.

It didn't take much for him to immediately think of Emma. His thoughts had drifted to her more than he cared to admit over the past years, wondering if she’d acclimated or if she’d burned out. It was definitely odd that such a brief encounter had left such a lasting impression, but at the same time, it had taken him well over 250 years to get over his first love; he was a romantic at heart, even if that heart no longer beat. 

He of course said nothing about it as they continued on; if no one had discovered what he’d done that night by now, he was content to leave it that way. There were other ways of him finding out if she was still around, such as—

—Such as the green eyes staring at him from the other side of the club, barely a minute after he’d entered it, freezing him in place.


	3. Tonight, tonight; it all began tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorrynotsorry for the Hamilton references; I couldn't resist.

Emma couldn’t help it; she was entranced. After so many years thinking she’d merely dreamed of their existence, to suddenly see those blue eyes—and the handsome face they belonged to—it kind of made the world seem to slow. The music, the moving bodies between them—it all seemed to hit some sort of decrescendo, and she found her feet moving toward him without her telling them to.

His gaze hadn’t left hers since they locked eyes, and it was almost as if the crowd was parting around them, leaving a clear path for her to finally meet the man who’d haunted her peripheral vision the last 15 years.

Then, suddenly, he was there in front of her. She breathed; she could smell him—something warm and spicy and vaguely like rum and leather—but there was no heat radiating from him like a human would have. Despite that, there was a solidness to him that proved he wasn’t a hallucination.

“You’re real,” she breathed.

“Aye,” he said in an accented voice. “You’re still here.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” she answered, slightly confused but more enamored than anything. 

“I’m glad,” he said, then reached for her hand. She continued to stare, entranced, as he brought it to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on the back of it. If her stomach was still capable, it would have flipped. Part of her wondered if he’d walked straight out of a Jane Austen novel, but the odds of him being that old (or older) were significant.

“I apologize if I kept you waiting,” he continued.

“I’m patient.”

“So am I.”

Without further ado, he stepped into her space; normally, she would have moved the opposite direction, but not tonight. Whatever that feeling was she’d gotten earlier—a warning, a sign, an omen—this was what it was bracing her for; she knew it.

(Apparently, she could be a hopeless romantic when she really wanted to be. Suck on that, Snow.)

He wrapped his free arm around her and she felt hers slip up to his (firm) shoulder, like some long-lost muscle memory was taking over. Then he took a step, and she followed. Then another, and another, until they were dancing in their own little circle in the middle of everyone.

“What is this?” she asked, the haze of her shock finally clearing a bit.

“It’s called a waltz,” he answered matter-of-factly. “And the only rule is: pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

Innuendo was dripping off that statement, and Emma decided she wouldn’t mind figuring out what else he knew how to do—at some point, at least; not here, not with all these people around. 

“I feel like I’ve been seeing you out of the corner of my eyes for years,” she confessed as they continued to step and sway. 

“I wish I could say you have, but I’ve been abroad the past several; there’s no way I would let a woman as lovely as you pass me by without giving her my full and prompt attention.”

She smiled; god, how long had it been since someone genuinely flirted with her? Someone who wasn’t looking for just a one-night fling. (Her sense for these things had only gotten sharper over the years—he was genuinely interested in her, she could tell. And the feeling was mutual.)

“It was you, right?” she asked, moving in a bit closer. “From the night I turned?”

Before he could answer, though, a firm hand was on her shoulder, pulling her away and rudely tugging her back into reality—David.

“Dad, what the hell?” she complained as he moved in front of her, almost like he was shielding her.

“Get back, Emma; he’s not safe,” David commanded, not taking his eyes off of—shit, Emma didn’t even know his name yet. But he too was surrounded by a couple other vampires, and Graham quickly joined the fray.

“He’s with Aurum,” Snow whispered in her ear, suddenly appearing at her side. “And Regina is here with him.”

Oh, shit—Regina was the one who turned her parents. Which meant she could control them, if she was so inclined; just another reminder of how lucky Emma was that her sire was gone. 

“We need to go—now,” Snow hissed, grabbed Emma’s arm, and started to pull her from the crowd.

“Dad!” Emma shouted, because it looked like he was confronting one of the Aurum guys. She knew he could hear her, but he was locked in a tense conversation, albeit brief; she couldn’t hear their exchange over the thumping dance music, but it was obvious from their body language that the tone was tense. She and Snow were nearly out the back door before he and Graham caught up to them and Snow finally loosened her grip on Emma’s arm.

Emma shook off her mother and peered through the door before it mechanically shut behind them. She got one last look of those too-blue eyes, still staring at her from across the bar, before the door closed.

Just her luck: the first time a guy actually gets her attention in at least 25 years, he’s completely unavailable to her due to some stupid ancient rivalry.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” Killian raged as he was unceremoniously pulled away from Emma and out of a fog of enchantment—by Robin, of all people. 

“Saving your skin,” Robin answered sharply. “She’s with Coroza.”

Fucking hell—he’d completely forgotten who he’d left her with. Bloody stupid ageless feud. But sure enough, when he looked back, he saw she was still with the Nolans. At the very least, his instincts there had been good. 

She was being dragged away by Snow, but David and another guy—Gary? no, Graham—hung back. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” David barked angrily.

“I could ask the same of you,” Robin snarled back, showing his descended fangs and approaching David. “Should have known this club would be trash.”

“Then maybe you should get back to your side of the border and leave us be.”

“Or maybe you should find another feeding ground altogether; I’m sure the fare in New Jersey is cheap enough for your palate.”

“That’s enough. This ends tonight,” David spat. Killian was pretty sure David didn’t have the authority to proclaim that, but he didn’t know the hierarchy in Coroza (and certainly wasn’t up to date on it) well enough to call his bluff.

“Fine,” Robin snarled. “Meet me at Granny’s tonight, 3:00. We’ll set the terms there.”

“Fine.” David turned and left with no further comment; Graham was quick to follow, but leveled a withering glare at Killian first that, if he wasn’t mistaken, was tinged with jealousy.

Whatever. Killian looked past both of them, through the back door of the establishment—where he caught one last glimpse of green eyes and blonde hair before the door closed. He prayed that wasn’t a metaphor.

Robin was quick to usher them all out, and Killian followed, not wanting to make a scene. But he quickly wracked his brain for his old recollection of addresses, and just had to hope the Nolans had the same habit towards moving (or rather, not) that the majority of vampires held. 

That was not the last time he saw Emma—he was going to be sure of that.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Emma was mature enough to admit that by the time they got home, she was sulking; that teenager feeling she had earlier was definitely still relevant. Her dad and Graham were talking strategy, it sounded like, and her mom was trying to comfort her, it seemed—though over what, she wasn’t sure.

Finally, they reached the townhouse; the boys disappeared to the downstairs office while Emma and Snow headed to the little-used kitchen. At least there was a bottle of black-market blood vodka in the fridge; Emma needed something to take the edge off, her drinking plans being interrupted.

She poured a shot for both her and Snow and quickly downed it. Snow, though, looked at hers a bit pensively. 

“I’m sorry your night out got ruined.”

“It’s fine; it happens,” Emma shrugged off. “I’ve got plenty more to come.”

“I know, but...god, I hate it when they show up like that.”

Emma didn’t let her mom see her roll her eyes; again, she didn’t give two shits about the rivalry—it was the way it seemed to bring out the worst in people that she had issue with. That was what ruined the night; not the mere presence of someone she was supposed to hate.

(Someone whose name she still didn’t know and was most likely the reason she’d been reunited with her parents in the first place—but that wasn’t something she was going to bring up right now.)

“Well, did you at least have fun with Graham?” Snow asked, happy to change the subject. Emma was less receptive.

“I barely even talked to him,” she scoffed.

“I wish you would. He’s a great guy.”

Emma didn’t hide her exasperation this time. “Yeah, he is—as a friend. I just...don’t like him like that.”

“Emma,” her mom sighed, then stepped close enough to wrap her in a hug. “That wall around your heart...it may keep out pain, but it can also keep out love. I just don’t want that for you.”

Emma’s mind immediately jumped to blue eyes and the sense of being drawn in by some unseen force. “I know, Mom, but—you’ve gotta let me do it on my own,” she said, rubbing Snow’s arm.

“Yeah, I know,” she sighed.

Emma gave a loving pat on Snow’s bicep, but then pried herself out of her mom’s embrace. “I’m going back up to the roof; I’ll be down later.”

“Alright; be safe.”

Emma chuckled; she was far more dangerous than any other predator out there. But she promised she would and headed up the stairs.

The sounds and smells of the city enveloped her again as she exited on the roof, hints of stars twinkling past the light pollution. It was a balmy and clear enough night that she’d probably consider staying up here for the rest of it, but for now, she was content to sit on the ledge overlooking the alley behind the building. It wasn’t particularly picturesque, but every now and then, a person would stumble through and Emma would feel a bit less alone in the world. 

Despite the family she’d found, being a vampire—and only truly walking the world during the dark—was far more isolating than she’d ever imagined.

Movement in the alley caught her attention; something was sliding through the shadows. It was usually just a stray cat, but this figure was much larger; despite her enhanced vision, it was too far away to make out until it came into the small bit of light that came from the streetlamp a quarter of a block down.

And then she gasped: it was him. Even in the faint light, she could see the sharp blue of his eyes—and they were staring right at her. 

“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?” he said softly, loud enough for her to hear clearly but not for the average human. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”

If she could blush, she’d be blushing. 

“Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,” he continued, moving closer to the building and carefully stepping onto the fire escape’s ladder. “Who is already sick and pale with grief.”

“Don’t tell me you’re so old that you actually knew Shakespeare,” she teased; she’d heard rumors that there were a few around here who did, though (including someone in charge of Shakespeare in the Park).

“She speaks: O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head.” He carefully continued the recitation as he climbed gracefully and almost silently. 

“Wait—watch out for the—!” she whisper-yelled—but it was too late. He wasn’t looking where he was reaching and grabbed for the loose rung three from the top with his left—hook? She wasn’t sure how she hadn’t noticed the prosthesis in the bar, but steel met rusty iron, which immediately gave way, leaving him dangling from his right hand. She hopped off her perch, saying “Shit—let me help!”

He chuckled; a low rumble that went straight to her core. “I’m fine, love; I’ve got this.”

And in a move that had no business being either physically possible or as ridiculously hot as it was, he somehow vaulted himself onto the roof with only his right arm.

She just gaped and blinked, her jaw literally dropping, as he landed in front of her with bent knees and then rose to his full height. He smirked, revealing a dimple in his scruff that was far too adorable for the far-from-innocent expression.

“How are you even real?” she blurted out.

“Well, many years ago, I was born, and then—”

“No, no, no,” she cut off; of course he was a smartass. “I know you’re real—I can feel it, felt it—but like...it’s like you walked out of the pages of some fairy tale,” she stammered.

His smirk fell a bit. “If I did, it certainly wasn’t a happy one—perhaps the Grimms’ version?” he posited, stepping toward her.

“Our lives certainly are as graphic as one,” she agreed. 

“I’d say,” he added, then waved his hook for emphasis. Oh god—he’d definitely know better than she would, clearly. She was totally messing this up, wasn’t she? 

“Sorry; I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” he waved off. “I know you didn’t.” There was no resentment in his voice; he meant it. In a city full of pissed-off assholes, it was nice to find one who wasn’t easily offended. 

For a long moment then, silence fell over them (as much as anything could be silent in the city) but it wasn’t awkward; his eyes flitted over her as if he was studying her, so she tried to do the same, but had a hard time getting past the bit of chest hair revealed by the open buttons at the collar of his dress shirt. But then she could tell he was smirking again, which made her realize she was staring. 

She averted her gaze to a cracked concrete tile she’d been meaning to fix for...at least 10 years. “Um, sorry about earlier—in the bar, what happened; my dad, he can get—”

“It’s fine, love; my friends are the same,” he interrupted. “Frankly, I'd forgotten the rivalry was still a thing.”

“Oh shit—are you going to be in trouble for being here?”

“Not if I’m not caught,” he shrugged off. “'Tis but thy name that is my enemy.”

She smiled at how smooth he pulled that off. “Except I don’t even know your name,” she tossed back. 

“Oh, bloody—” he cursed to himself, running his hand through his dark hair, then straightened back up. “Killian Jones,” he said, adding in a slight bow, “at your service, ma’am.”

God, even his name sounded too fancy to be real. Although, there was probably something equally fantastical about hers. “Emma Swan,” she replied.

“I know.”

Her eyebrows raised. “You do?”

“To answer your question from earlier—if you’re referring to the night that Walsh Baum died after turning his last girlfriend, then yes, that was me who found you.” So she was right—she knew she was, deep in her gut, but to have confirmation was nice. “I’d been sent to follow you to make sure that didn’t happen. But obviously, I wasn’t successful there.”

She tilted her head, assessing the way he was decidedly not meeting her eyes on that last part. “That’s not the whole truth, is it?” Her ability to sense a lie, particularly in humans but also in other vampires, was a well-honed tool. 

“You’re quite perceptive, aren’t you?” he rebuffed, still focusing on his hook instead of her. 

“When I need to be.” She didn’t feel like she was in any danger; but her curiosity demanded to know. 

“I was supposed to kill you,” he said quietly. “But I couldn’t.”

Well. That was not what she expected.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Killian’s memory hadn’t failed him; the Nolans still lived in the same quaint little Hell’s Kitchen home. The view from the alley across the street was little changed in the last 15 years; just different cars parked on the street; different adverts glued to the utility poles.

He made his way to the alley alongside the building, clinging to the shadows to avoid being seen; he was very good at that. But then a golden spotlight drew his attention: Emma, perched on the edge of the roof, looking fully ethereal in the glow of the yellow streetlight.

And, well, his more theatrical side took over from there. (Yes, it was completely showing off by using only one arm to leap onto the roof, but he hadn’t gotten this far without knowing how to impress a lass.)

He was a little surprised at how well Emma was able to read him; but it was a firm reminder that despite his tracking her (and subsequent years of daydreaming), and despite their intense moment earlier, he really didn’t know her. 

Oh, but he wished to. 

“I was supposed to kill you,” he reluctantly revealed. “But I couldn’t.”

Her green gaze had already turned suspicious, and with that statement, he could almost see the physical walls going up behind them.

“So, what, you’re here to finish the job?” she accused.

“No,” he vehemently assured her. “I had no desire to kill you then, and even less now.” 

Her features softened, but only slighting. “Should I be worried about someone else coming after me?”

“As far as Aurum knows, you’re already dead. If they knew you weren’t, let's just say neither of us would be here to have this conversation.”

The tiniest sparkle of amusement ticked at the corner of her mouth. “I mean, technically I  _ am  _ dead,” she joked. “But...why didn’t you?”

That same familiar expression was in her face as he saw it 15 years ago. “You had that look in your eyes—the one you get when you’ve been left alone. And I...I know what that’s like, and I didn’t think you deserved to die like that.”

He hadn’t intended to make things so heavy, but he also knew he couldn’t withhold the truth. Although he was surprised at how easily he told her; it had taken nearly a decade to reveal anything of his past to Robin, and yet something told him he’d be spilling his full backstory to Emma over the course of the night. 

On her end, she seemed to be slightly overwhelmed by the statement; her eyes had gone wide and she was taking unnecessarily deep breaths (unnecessary in that she needn’t take any at all). “Thank you,” she said resolutely, and he could hear the weight in her simple words. 

Even after two and a half centuries, he still hadn’t learned to accept gratitude, so he just nodded and ducked his head a bit, trying to hide the blush that wasn’t there. “I can’t say it was entirely selfless,” he continued in an attempt to shrug it off. “There’s something to be said about finding a way to disobey the man who’s controlled you for the last 200-plus years.”

“Yeah, but sending me to the other side?”

He had to roll his eyes. “I hardly care about some petty, pointless rivalry that’s stretched through the centuries. While I may be under the thumb of Aurum, I don’t give two whits about sides.”

“Thank God someone else doesn’t,” she blurted out. “Like, I get why my parents do—Regina is the one that turned them, and not gonna lie, that is a bit of a sore spot for me—but that’s a personal issue. No reason to join a gang.”

He chuckled a bit at her simple but rational logic. “Aye; I’m likewise not much a fan of Cora—she killed my love, many years ago—but I only hold that against her; not the rest of her coven.” To this day, he still didn’t know if Cora had singled Milah out because of her connection with him, or her connection with Gold; either way, she had been murdered, and there was naught he could do.

“Eesh, that sucks.”

“Aye, it did.”

“It doesn’t anymore?”

“I was angry for a very long time, but the pain dissipated over the years—and I’ve had many of them. Plus,” he added, stepping towards her, “I found someone else has caught my attention recently.”

“Oh yeah?” she asked, even though she seemed to know the answer, and smiled. “Who?”

“Well, you see, there's been this fierce blonde running through my dreams the last 15 years or so, and now that I’ve properly met her, I must say—she fascinates me.”

“What a coincidence; you fascinate her, too.”

“Aye?”

“Yeah, and she’s been seeing your blue eyes out of the corner of hers for years now.”

She had moved into his space on that last statement, and the air between them was full of a static tension Killian had never felt before, as if it was drawing them together. This wasn’t the same as what had happened in the club—this was electric, begging for release, and—

—And suddenly his lips were on hers, or perhaps the other way around, but it didn’t really bloody matter because she was soft and warm under him, against him, pressed tight against his body and he knew—he didn’t know how, but he knew—he’d never kiss another pair of lips again.

_ O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again. _

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Holy shit—Killian could kiss. 

Emma wasn’t entirely sure who initiated it; just that she couldn’t resist it (him) anymore without touching him. It was like the opposite ends of a magnet being drawn together: inevitable and forceful. 

(Which, given the whole rival teams thing, was probably appropriate.)

Emotionally, her walls weren’t entirely down—they didn’t fall that easily, not anymore, if ever—but she could tell they weren’t going to last, and not just because of his make out skills. She’d known him all of ten minutes and already he understood her better than anyone ever had—more than Neal, more than Walsh, more than her parents even. 

That said: his scruff left a delicious burn on her lips and she could taste the blood rum he’d had earlier, sweet and spiced and so like him and she wanted to get drunk on it (especially since her shot at actual inebriation for the evening had gone out the window).

And the one nice thing about making out when you were technically undead: you didn’t have to come up for air. She tilted her head to deepen the kiss, ready to settle in for a while, pressing her entire body against his (and liking what she felt). A rush of arousal washed over her and—

—And her fangs dropped down of their own accord. What the fuck? That had never happened.

She pulled back when they did, instinctively not wanting to hurt him (though logically, she doubted she could). “Sorry,” she apologized breathlessly. “That’s never happened before.”

Killian let his forehead rest against hers. “I thought that was the guy’s line?”

She chuckled and lightly slapped his shoulder, then shifted her weight back a bit, trying to put some space between them—and the evidence of his own arousal, which was doing nothing to tamp hers down. 

Honestly, she was kind of embarrassed; she felt like some horny teenager losing her cool in the presence of an elder statesman. She’d had a few one-night stands since she turned, but nothing serious—and never felt anything as intense as what she felt right now, and they’d barely even touched. It was kind of overwhelming; not in a bad way, just not in a way she was ready to address just yet—at least, not seriously.

“You kiss pretty good for someone old enough to be my great-great-grandfather,” she teased, a smile playing at her lips while her hands, which had somehow ended up on his shoulders, pressed against the preternaturally firm muscles below them.

“There should probably be a few more greats in there,” he quipped back, his hand squeezing her hip and the brace of his prosthesis pressing against her other side.

“Oh really? Just when were you born?”

“The Ninth of April in the Year of Our Lord 1750,” he answered rather officially.

Emma whistled. “Damn. Good thing I like older men. How old were you when you were turned?”

“31.”

“Okay, still older.”

“It’s good to know that’s your entire criteria in seeking a partner.”

She snorted, but only to cover up the way she instinctively balked at his choice of words; she couldn’t deny that it was headed that way, though. Even if it had barely been an hour since their first exchange, it felt like forever ago—or maybe it was just because she’d been unconsciously chasing him for her entire afterlife.

Still—it felt like the world was starting to spin, and she needed it to slow down. She grabbed his hand and stepped away, but tugged him along with her. “Come here; I want to show you something.”

He followed without hesitation as she led him to her tent, but hesitated when she tried to drag him down onto the cushions. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I’d hate to intrude on what’s clearly something of a sanctuary,” he explained, nodding at her modest fortress. 

“You’re not; I’m inviting you in.” She hoped he understood the double meaning there. 

An adorably shy smile took over and he followed, falling gracefully to her left onto the mound of pillows. She reached to her other side and fiddled with some cords, and suddenly, light filled her makeshift tent as power flowed to the twinkle lights she’d rigged up along the crude wooden framing.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Killian gushed—genuinely, not placatingly—as he stared around.

“It’s better if you lay down,” she told him, then let herself fall back against the cushions; he followed suit.

“I wasn’t talking about the tent but I do agree—I can think of any number of enjoyable activities that involve a woman on her back.”

“You’re just full of one-liners, aren’t you?”

“I’ve had quite some time to accrue them.” 

“Fair.”

A thick sheet of clear vinyl formed most of the top of the tent; if she spent time up here during the day, she’d have stuck with something opaque, but given that she never used it when the sun was most at risk of frying her, it was perfect for dark, wet nights. “I love to come out here when it’s raining,” she explained, “and watch and hear it coming down above me. I could almost fall asleep.” You know, if that was a thing she could still do.

She turned to look at him, but he was staring up, a wistful smile on his face. “Aye, I can only imagine; I used to love the sound of it falling on the deck when I was in lower quarters.”

“What, were you a pirate?”

“Eventually, yes; but prior to that, served in His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

“Which ‘his majesty’ was that?” 

“King George the Third.”

“Wait, like,  _ Hamilton  _ King George?” 

“One and the same.”

“Shit, you are old.”

“Why would I make that up?”

“I dunno; street cred?”

He chuckled. “That’s the farthest thing from my mind.”

Now her curiosity was piqued. “So, did you fight in the Revolution?”

“Aye, though we didn’t exactly call it that on our side.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t have.”

“No, but I did find my sympathies changing sides while stationed here.”

“What, liked it so much you decided to stay?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘decided,’ exactly,” he countered, then turned his head to look at her. Even with the change in angle, it was easy to see that his previous cockiness had given way to trepidation. “Is this where we divulge our tragic backstories?”

She grabbed his hand. “It can be, if you want.”

“Okay.” 

It almost seemed like historical fiction, the tale he told her: born in a poor fishing village, losing his mother when he was young and his father leaving them later, joining the Navy with his brother to get out of a terrible situation, being sent to America to fight the ‘rebels’, falling in love with a woman he met in a tavern in Boston, losing his brother and his hand in battle, and then all hell breaking loose. 

“Milah was nursing me back to help when, lo and behold, her husband located us. Gold.”

“No,” Emma gasped. 

“Aye. He was...less than pleased, as you can imagine, but she managed to talk him down. But we were out on the town some weeks later when Cora cornered us and murdered her. At that point, I had little to live for, and despite my injury, volunteered for the next battle; how my officer accepted me, I’ll never understand.”

“What battle was that?”

“Yorktown.”

“1781,” she automatically finished; she and her mom really listened to the  _ Hamilton  _ soundtrack way too much.

Thankfully, he laughed. “Yeah, that was the year. That was also where I was turned.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry.”

“It’s alright. It’s still my favorite song.”

He went on to explain how he was a bit too close to cannon fire from a Continental Navy ship, delivering a fatal blow to his chest that sent him overboard. If the internal bleeding hadn’t gotten him, he’d have likely drowned—except Gold was waiting nearby. “He’s never told me why he was there—if it was the general chaos or me explicitly—but I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

Killian was dragged through the brackish waters of Chesapeake Bay by Gold to the rough shore of a then-unpopulated island and turned; he wasn’t lucid enough to protest (to even notice who his would-be savior was) until it was too late. “My first meal was another soldier who’d washed ashore,” he admitted.

If she could still cry, she’d be wiping tears from her face. Holy shit—what a traumatic way to be turned—to even live. “God, I’m so sorry,” she told him, and squeezed his hand.

He shrugged. “It is what it is; ancient history now. I’m having a hard time complaining if that was what it took to bring me to you.”

Emma had to avert her gaze at that; he was not only telling the truth, he was wearing his damn heart on his sleeve, and it was intense. “Please, you hardly know if I’m worth that yet.”

“Emma,” he said softly, then gently turned her face back to him with his hook. “I’ve met thousands of people over the past two and a half centuries, and not one has made the impression you did in a fraction of the time. I feel...I feel like even if you were following me the last several years, I was chasing you my whole life.”

She needlessly swallowed; it was funny how physical reactions lingered even when they no longer served a purpose. But that was what she did when she was overwhelmed in life, and she was extra-whelmed now. 

Especially because, “I feel that way, too.” It was only a whisper but somehow the loudest thing she’d ever said.

Slowly, reverently, he pressed his lips against hers; she was still reeling emotionally, but his kiss was a welcome balm to her aching mind (or something vaguely poetic like that; she was too focused on how good it felt to come up with a good analogy). He deepened the kiss a bit and pulled her closer, but it wasn’t heated, just—she hated to say this so soon—loving.

It didn’t last long until he broke it, but he stayed close, his arms around her. “And you? I’d love to know more about your beginnings.”

“Not much to tell,” she shrugged. “Not as exciting as yours, at least.” She explained what happened with her parents and growing up in the foster system; her first love, her stint in jail, and the baby she gave up; and a brief summary of the years in between her release from jail and that night in Walsh’s apartment.

“Wait—so the Nolans are actually your parents? They birthed you?”

“Yup. I guess I should be thanking you for that, too.”

“No, love—that’s my pleasure. I mean, I had no idea, but I’m glad you were reunited. I had no idea their history with Regina.”

“It is what it is, but we’re making the best of it. Although I definitely feel like a teenager sometimes.”

“I can only imagine,” he chuckled. “And look at you now—hiding a boy from them and everything.”

She laughed, but it turned into a groan. “Ugh. I’m not looking forward to that conversation.”

“Don’t think of it, then. We have all the time in the world to figure that out.”

Just then, Killian’s phone started vibrated, making them both jump; a perfect reminder that things were not as simple as either of them would like.

“That’ll be Robin,” he muttered, then dug the device from his pocket and began replying to the message he’d received. “Shoot; I have to be at Granny’s in 10 minutes.”

“Can’t you do something to convince them to call this off?” she wondered. “We can’t be the only ones to think this is a petty feud.”

“I can certainly try; but we know how hot the tempers of our kind can run.” It was true; it sometimes felt like emotion had replaced bodily functions. Instead of her heart beating, she filled that void with pure emotion.

“I know, I know; but—try?”

“I will.”

They spent a few more minutes in the tent making out (and maybe a bit of dry humping, but Emma was cautious to not let it go too far lest her fangs make another unexpected appearance), and then stole any number of kisses as they made their way back across the roof to the fire escape.

“I hope it’s always this hard to say goodbye to you,” he murmured between a few last pecks.

“Then let’s not—how about ‘see you later’?” she proposed.

“When?”

“Granny’s, at dusk; I’m working tomorrow and I usually stop there to eat beforehand.”

“It’s a date.”

She grinned and gave him one final kiss, before he made a careful climb back down.

When he was firmly on the ground, he looked up and said quietly, “Not a moment will go by I don’t think of you.”

“Good,” was her simple reply, and he disappeared into the night.

(Something else was on the tip of her tongue, but she wasn’t ready to say it yet. However, it wouldn’t be much longer until she admitted it to both herself and him: she loved him.)


	4. You got some high times ahead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit more lore/world-building than CS, but it features Zelena and Belle, who are a lot of fun to write. Hope you enjoy it!

Perhaps if Killian was less of a romantic, less dramatically inclined, he would have remembered the best way to get to Granny’s without being noticed by David would have been to stay on the rooftops. As it was, he had to sprint several blocks in the other direction after bidding Emma adieu to ensure her father didn’t catch him in the neighborhood when he hardly had a reason to be there.

Who knew that, at 270, he’d be sneaking out of his girlfriend’s place to avoid her parents? He hadn’t even done that at 27. (Also, who thought that, at 270, he’d actually be using the term ‘girlfriend’? Was it too soon for that? Was it immature? Did he care? No.)

But, thanks to his superior age and therefore speed, it was no challenge to detour all the way to Hudson Yard and take in a bit of sea air before heading back into the city, eventually hopping across apartment buildings to better avoid being seen, and landing gracefully in Granny’s back alley. He was late, but he didn’t have it in him to care much.

He didn’t want to let his friends down, though, so he didn’t hesitate to slip in through the rear door of the diner. Frankly, that entrance got just as much use as the one on the street did; not only was Granny’s a neutral site as far as vampire gang warfare went, it was something of a liminal space in the middle of the rush of the city: how many 24-hour diners catered to the tastes of all manner of nonhumans? Fae conducted business here on the regular, Bigfoot was known to make the occasional appearance when he was down from the Adirondacks, and the owner herself was a werewolf.

The woman in question gave him an appropriately feral grin as he entered the dining room; normally, he’d take the time to flirt, but the meeting had clearly started without him. Robin and David were seated on opposite sides of a small table, with their teammates around them—Henry and Will, another younger vampire (well, comparatively) were with Robin, and David was backed by that Graham guy, Jefferson the weird milliner, and Zelena, who he knew was close with Cora (and had been plain annoying as far back as he could remember).

“Switchblades?” Robin said; they’d clearly made some decisions without him. That might make it a bit harder for Killian to quash this.

“No; swords?” David countered.

“Daggers?”

“Stakes?”

“Icicles of holy water,” Killian interjected into their back and forth, somehow making them jump. “Sharpened stems of garlic. How many cliches can we hit on here?”

Robin looked appropriately chastised, but David just glared.

“What did I miss?” he asked Robin, but David answered for him.

“Rumble, tomorrow, same time as now. Under the highway. Winner gets control of territory between 42nd and 43rd. We were just deciding weapons.”

“Are you all mad?” he blurted out. “That’s a fine way to draw the attention of half the NYPD and blow the entire supernatural world’s cover. You may as well take out a billboard in Times Square.”

The ensuing silence told him they knew he was right. But he could tell tensions were too high for him to convince them to call it off entirely; he could at the very least minimize the potential damage. 

“Back in my day,” he started, immediately ignoring the huff of frustration from Will, who had been subjected to any number of such stories in the past 30 years, “we settled these disputes one-on-one. A duel, if you would. I see no reason why such a tradition has to die.”

Again, he was met with silence; he took the lack of protest as agreement.

“One on one,” he continued. “The most evenly matched from both sides fight it out until blood is drawn. No weapons, no teeth.”

Jefferson looked incensed at the idea, and he could tell Will was angrily shifting behind him. If they wanted to duke it out, they could do that on their own; Killian’s days of fighting were well behind him and the sooner this was over, the better.

“I can agree to that,” David eventually said.

“Aye,” Robin replied, and they shook on it.

Graham stepped from behind David and pointed at Killian. “I’m going to enjoy drawing your blood, mate,” he threatened.

Emma hadn’t mentioned it, but he’d gotten the impression that Graham was the preferred suitor. But frankly, he found him irritating. “Oh? Are you 250 years old?”

“No; 160,” he answered, slightly deflated (which gave Killian a tiny, immature thrill).

“Then I believe you’re perfectly matched with Robin here; he’s 168.” He slapped Robin on the shoulder for emphasis.

Robin stood and inserted his hand between Killian and Graham. “Looking forward to it,” he bit out.

Slightly bewildered, Graham accepted Robin’s hand, but was still glaring at Killian. 

They verified the details, gave it one last shake, and then Coroza was quick to leave. Which was just as well; Killian didn’t need any daggers, real or metaphorical, shooting in his back while he was drinking.

The four of them congregated at the counter and were promptly greeted by Granny. “That smelled like trouble,” the old wolf stated plainly, but leveled a too-sharp eye on all of them. “Should I be worried?”

“Your establishment is perfectly safe, milady,” Robin assured her. “You know we’d never dare risk the loss of your hospitality.” Though the mortals were somehow unaware of the fact, she’d been running some sort of eating establishment in the same spot as far back as Killian could remember, though back then it was a public house and she was merely the Young Mrs. Lucas (the title of ‘Granny’ didn’t come for another century). Not only was it neutral ground, but it was too beloved for any one group to let it fall into any crosshairs.

“Damn straight,” she grumbled back, then got their drink orders ready.

Henry and Will quickly fell into conversation, so Killian turned to Robin. “Why wasn’t Regina here?” He’d fully expected it, given that she’d been part of this for...well, ever.

“She decided to sit this one out. Figured it didn’t make for good negotiation if Nolan was involved.”

“Good call.” But then a pang went through his unbeating heart at the recollection of what Emma had been telling him—about why she grew up an orphan, and who was to blame. He’d known Regina quite well by that point in time, and had no idea why she’d attack a couple like that—especially all the way in Maine. It didn’t add up.

But then, how much of this petty rivalry did?

Robin went on, not noticing Killian’s discomfort. “Aye, especially with Zelena there. You know how they are.” The rivalry seemed especially bitter between those two for reasons that Killian had yet to glean. 

Granny gracefully distributed their drinks in a feat of dexterity that was obviously superhuman, and they clinked a toast—though if Killian’s was less than enthusiastic, the others didn’t notice.

They continued to chat about whatever—the Yankees, the Mets, Liverpool FC (three of the four of them were Brits, after all, even if two of them predated the club), construction at Hudson Yard—until Killian noticed that Henry had given up trying to down the god-awful blood-spiked beer Will had foisted on him (the man had been a punk in the ‘80s when he was turned and never quite grew out of some tastes), and was instead staring longingly at another patron’s burger. Killian hadn’t had a chance to assess just how recently Henry had been turned, but that confirmed it was a very new thing; it took surprisingly little time to forget a taste for mortal delicacy.

He leaned over and whispered to Henry, “If you ask nice, Granny will make one extra rare for you.” Henry jumped again, clearly still getting used to his new senses, but perked up at the idea. 

“So fresh, you can still hear it moo,” the old wolf commented from behind the counter. The hungry grin that accompanied it would probably be unsettling to most, but Killian had known her far too long to see anything but good humor (and more than a smidge of flirtation) in it. 

“Ah, a quiet meal,” he quipped back. “Most of mine tend to be rather...talkative.” The group shared a chuckle; perhaps that joke was a bit dark, but when you could only go out at night, that tended to happen.

Unfortunately for Henry, he didn’t get a chance to try the meal before Will was dragging him out (something about videogames, apparently; that was one trend Killian had never much caught onto). Robin followed shortly, heading for for Regina’s, leaving Killian alone at the counter with Granny.

“You know that battle’s not gonna be the end of it, right?” she said as she placed another shot of bloodrum in front of him and poured one of her own.

“Aye, but it can’t hurt to try.”

“No, I suppose it can’t.” She held her glass up to him; he clinked his against it and they downed the shots together. But she continued after they swallowed. “You do know about the prophecy, though, right?”

He looked up in surprise. “The what?”

“I don’t know the details, but I’ve heard it’s the only way to settle things once and for all. If you really want to end this rivalry, you’re gonna have to go to the top.”

He wanted to ask more, but she wouldn’t go into further detail, instead going to serve a pixie at the other end of the bar. He racked his brain; he couldn’t recall ever hearing anything about a prophecy, and few had been around as long as he had. Hmm; perhaps he had a visit to make later. 

But first: Granny had left the bottle of rum on the counter, and he needed a few more shots before he could truly unwind from what had been a tumultuous night. 

Before he did that, however, he did dig out his phone to call Gold and appraise him of the situation. Honestly, it probably wouldn’t mean much to the man—given that neither he nor Cora were involved, it might not even be official—but still, he should know.

To Killian’s surprise, he took the news in stride. “Fair’s fair; if that’s what everyone agrees on, I’m fine with that, and I’m sure Cora will hold up her end of it, too.” Killian was less convinced of that but if Gold was, he wouldn’t argue. “Extend my best wishes to Mr. Locksley, will you?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Actually…” It was probably stupid, but Killian needed to know. “Sir, are you aware of a prophecy?”

The other end of the line was so silent, he feared they’d been disconnected, until Gold’s voice returned with a hard edge in it. “Where did you hear that?”

“Just a rumor,” Killian lied; it was easy to over phone. “I’ve only heard of its existence, but not what it’s about. Do you—”

Gold cut him off. “Whether or not a prophecy exists is of no concern of yours. Just make sure Locksley wins that fight.” And then the line truly went dead.

Killian stared at his phone in confusion for a moment; just what had that been? Gold didn’t just sound angry; he almost sounded scared.

Which meant that whatever was in that prophecy, it was important—and if Killian wanted to put an end to all this, and ensure he and Emma had a chance at a life together, he needed to find out what.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Emma had just gotten out of a (rather long) shower when her dad and the crew arrived back at their place. Not that their townhouse was any sort of official Coroza hangout; the Nolans were just the most hospitable—something to do with David growing up on a Midwestern farm—and always keen to invite people over.

Either the meeting hadn’t been that long, or she’d been bathing for a while—both were likely, because she’d taken her time in making sure Killian’s scent was washed off of her. It’d be noticeable, especially if they’d just been in his presence. 

Right after she’d gotten out, before she’d even gotten dressed, she had gone to text him to ask how things went—until she realized she still didn’t have his phone number. Dammit. But the voices she could easily hear in the lower level of the house would tell her everything.

She was a little surprised to see that Jefferson had joined them; he was something of a loner, even though he’d been around for a couple hundred years and was reasonably close to Cora. 

Closer still to Cora, though, was Zelena, who was sipping a glass of bloodwine off to the side of where the guys were gathered on the sofa in the living room. She always seemed to pop up out of nowhere; honestly, it would creep Emma out if she didn’t know that she was one of the oldest vampires in town.

“Emma! There you are.” Emma jumped at the frantic way Snow blurted the greeting, and had to rely on her superhuman reflexes to grab the wine glass that was shoved at her (honestly, if she’d been able to react at even a fraction of this speed when she was alive, maybe she’d have lived up to her last name). “It’s drinking time.”

“Did the meeting go that bad?” she asked, watching as her mom took a long drag from her own glass.

“Actually, it was rather refreshing,” Zelena said drily. “Historically, at least one person ends up dead in these sorts of things. And I really didn’t feel like washing blood from this blouse tonight.”

Snow just took another long, panicked drink. Zelena was never known for her tact (although Emma did have to agree that her green v-neck was gorgeous).

“So what did happen?” Emma had never been that great an actor, so hopefully her feigned indifference was convincing.

Zelena caught her up on the plan—a one-on-one fight rather than an all-out brawl. It was still more than Emma would have liked but certainly not as bad as it could have been. 

“It was headed that way,” Zelena responded to her comment, “except for Jones apparently being the only one with any brain cells still alive in Aurum.”

“Jones?” she blurted, unable to hold back at mention of Killian. Shit.

But thankfully, they read it as confusion; being one of the youngest vampires in the coven had its perks. “He’s the one you were dancing with,” Snow murmured.

“Oh,” she said, pretending to be ignorant (and that she didn’t know what his kiss tasted like).

“It was his idea for single combat. Makes me wish we had a soldier on our side—or just, you know, anyone with any sort of battle strategy. Humbert here was ready to tear his head off at the suggestion, even though it was a good one.”

“Are they the ones fighting?” Emma had to ask; it was the one time she’d let her mom think she was showing concern for Graham.

“Humbert is, but he’s facing...oh, what’s his name—Robert? Robbie? Something like that.”

It took effort not to look too relieved, so she hid her reaction in her drink. 

“I’m just glad it’s not David,” Snow said, having emptied her glass. 

“Then why are you drinking so much?” Zelena sneered.

“Because this was my night to get drunk! Aurum can’t take that from me.” And without another word, Snow disappeared back to the kitchen; Emma was pretty sure she heard the liquor cabinet open, where she was pretty sure a bottle of sanguiria was hiding.

Which left a slightly awkward silence over Emma and Zelena while the boys continued to lecture Graham on fighting (what good would that even do at this point? How had he not made it a century and half without knowing these things?) She rolled her eyes at them. “At least this’ll be the end of it, right?”

“We’ll see,” Zelena answered and took another sip. “I don’t see how something dating back 400 years will be settled by two assholes in a parking lot, but they can certainly try.”

“This rivalry seriously goes back that far?” She’d been told vague stories of the bad blood between the covens, but they all started with cliches like “many moons ago” and “once upon a time.”

“Ugh, I swear—we need to make this part of new vampire orientation or something,” Zelena complained. “Cora and Gold used to be lovers; he’s the one who turned her.”

“Holy shit.” Emma had not seen that coming. She’d have believed it if one of them had killed the other’s family or something—and Killian’s story wasn’t far from her mind—but actually lovers? “They must have had the worst breakup ever, then.”

“Something like that,” Zelena confirmed. “Gold—or Rumplestiltskin, as he was known back then—” (which was a revelation all on its own—) “meddled with Cora’s family in a way that was unforgivable. He took one of her daughters.” 

“Cora had daughters?” God, how many bomb revelations were going to be dropped on her tonight? (And was separating kids from their parents just an Aurum thing or what?)

“Two. And you’re talking to one of them.”

Emma’s dropped jaw had to suffice as a reply to that. Hopefully, her mom had saved her some sanguiria. “Wait—so he...did he...you…?”

“Did he turn me? No; I practically begged Mum to once I got of age. But Gold stole my sister and that caused the rift, among other things. So I really don’t see this little kerfuffle solving anything.”

There wasn’t much to say to that other than hum in agreement; no wonder things got so heated. Emma still thought it was silly, but having a frame of reference helped. She didn’t know if that made her predicament easier to deal with or harder, though.

“And it’s too bad, really,” Zelena continued. “I’d love to see my sister again, and then you could be with Killian.”

For the first time in 15 years, Emma choked on blood. “Um, what?”

“Darling, I’m 383 years old; you’re probably safe from anyone else here noticing, but I can still smell him all over you; he positively reeked earlier. And I hardly blame you. Frankly, you two might be our only hope.” Emma really wanted to ask what that meant, but was too busy mentally panicking and praying no one else heard this exchange. “Don’t worry; your secret’s safe with me,” Zelena promised, handing Emma her now-empty glass. “Just don’t be an idiot about it, alright?”

“All—alright,” Emma stammered.

“Good. Well, I’m off,” she said casually—and much louder; Emma hadn’t even realized they’d been whispering. “Good luck tomorrow, everyone,” she called as she headed for the door, but her eyes were locked with Emma’s before she made her exit.

Quickly, Emma finished her wine—just in time for Snow to refill it (with some claret; honestly, she didn’t care what it was as long as it had blood and alcohol. She would have settled for finding a drunk frat boy outside a party if that was what it took). That was...a lot to unpack in one night, and she had never been very good at that—side effect of being a foster kid. 

She wondered how much of it Killian knew; he had to know at least some of it, right? And what had Zelena been talking about—how were they the “only hope”? (What was this,  _ Star Wars _ ?) She didn’t want to be any sort of savior; she just wanted to jump her vampire boyfriend’s bones without causing a gang war. And, you know, the happily ever after stuff her mom was always talking about.

The two of them wordlessly continued to share the bottle of booze and stare out the window as the sun’s early rays started to brighten the buildings across the street. At some point, Jefferson and Graham had left, which helped Emma relax but didn’t remove the tension.

Outside, the moon was starting its morning fade; she’d be counting the hours until it made its evening appearance—‘til she could see Killian again.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Killian only just made it into the library before the full sun was shining on the entrance. He’d have to steal an umbrella or something when he left, but with any luck, it would rain like it was supposed to this afternoon and he’d be fine. 

He loved the library—the scent of ink on paper, the quiet hush of knowledge being shared, the occasional squeal of joy—but all was quiet and still at this early hour, especially since they weren’t technically open. (But he knew which door was usually unlocked, and if he didn’t show up on any security camera, then what was the harm?)

He would have loved to linger in the stacks, and might yet later, but he was on a mission, and instead made a beeline for the rare book collection and archives—the one place without windows, where a vampire could actually work in peace.

He made little noise as he pressed the heavy door open and stepped inside the musty room. It was pristine—not even a dust mote swirling in the lights.

“Unless you’ve somehow managed to make an everything bagel with blood, we’re not open,” the petite librarian called out from somewhere in the recesses of the space. Of course she heard him.

“I was never much of a baker, love,” he replied. “But how about some bloody earl grey?”

He’d only just moved his arm to the side, ensuring the safety of said tea, when a small but solid form was wrapped around him tightly. A few seconds later, it was slapping his chest.

“Killian Jones, you  _ fils de pute _ ! You didn’t tell me you were coming back!” Belle chastised, even though she was grinning.

“What, and ruin the surprise?”

She rolled her eyes, but chuckled. “ _ Merde _ , but it’s good to see you,” she said, pressing up the few inches her heels didn’t cover to press a kiss to his cheek. “And you, too,” she added, but this time directed towards the tea. There was exactly one Starbucks in the city that catered specifically to vampires, just a couple blocks from here; hopefully, corporate never investigated the contents of the extra “red syrup” the undead staff kept stocked, though considering neither the location nor staff had changed in at least 15 years, they were likely in the clear.

“Why do I get the impression this is more than just a social call?” 

She knew him too well; he supposed that was to be expected after 150 years. “Perhaps I just came here to help one of my best friends; had you considered that, eh? What are you up to today?”

“Digitizing, as always, and I think there’s an appointment later to see some old Broadway posters. And whatever it is that’s brought you here, obviously.”

“You wound me.”

She glared at him as she took a sip from her cup—surprisingly menacing for one so seemingly docile, but it was also hard to believe that the dainty woman before him was a 200-some-year-old creature of the night. (Though it certainly took that amount of practice to run around a library in platform heels the way she did.) “Just what are you up to, Captain?”

He took his own drag of tea as he studied the aging leather spines in a glass-locked cabinet on the closest shelf, noting that the two of them were both likely older than the tomes, and yet showed no such signs of wear and tear. “It’s not anything hugely important, just a bit of gossip I heard, but figured you would be the one to confirm or deny it.”

“And what’s that?”

“With this whole ageless coven war, have you ever heard of any sort of...prophecy?”

He turned his head to look at her; were it not for the way she licked the tea off her lips, he’d think she was a statue. “Where did you hear that?” she finally murmured.

“Granny.” He couldn’t lie, and Belle wouldn’t judge.

“Yeah, she’d pick up something like that,” Belle had to admit. “Sharp old wolf.”

“So it’s real?”

Belle nodded. “It is, but no one’s said anything about it in...gosh, at least a hundred years. It goes back ages, though; I believe to the start of all this.”

“Does it say anything about how to end it?”

She sighed. “Yeah, it does. But let me finish my tea first.”

He truly had come to see her—not just for information; they’d first crossed paths sometime during the 1860s in Australia and been fast friends ever since. Killian couldn’t even remember what Gold had sent him there for, but Belle had come back to New York with him on one of his trips and stayed in the city ever since. She was originally from France, but after being turned (and losing her family) during the Reign of Terror, she fled the continent for England and hopped on the first ship out of Europe—to a penal colony on the other side of the world. Thus her odd combination of French curses and Australian accent. (Though after long enough, most vampires developed hard-to-place accents on account of their nomadicity; his likely only identified him as British due to his recent time spent there. And it hardly mattered in New York.)

She caught him up on anything he’d missed in the last decade that Robin hadn’t already, but didn’t betray the one thing he’d been hoping she’d mention: whether or not she was currently with Gold. He kind of hated how well they’d hit it off when he introduced them, but in the intervening decades, he’d lost count of how many times they’d broken up, made up, married, divorced, or just been “on a break” (it wasn’t a stretch to say they were a real-life Ross and Rachel; her apartment even had a purple door). They were freshly divorced when he’d left, but that didn’t mean much.

While she was taking a last, long dreg of tea, he had to ask. “And how are things with Gold?”

Suddenly, the cup was flattened and thrown with some precision to the trash bin near the door.

“Excellent, I take it?”

“More like completely done. Forever.”

He’d heard that before, but wasn’t about to contradict her. “What now?”

“Believe it or not, that’s one thing you haven’t missed—we haven’t gotten back together since you left.”

That had to be a record. However, he sensed that wasn’t all. “But?”

“But he’s tried on numerous occasions,” she sighed. “I’ve had enough, though; the shady dealings, his weird hangup over Cora, acting like king of his own empire. I’m not just another one of his playthings for him to control—oh, sorry.”

It wasn’t unusual for Belle to forget who she was talking to while ranting; however, “I’m not going to refute any of that, you know.”

“I know, just—I know you don’t have a choice.”

“Few have one.”

“Well, someone might—which brings us to the prophecy.” 

She started off for the back of the room, where the oldest books were kept; he had to jump to keep up with her (not like it was hard, though).

“Have you ever heard the legend of the Dark One?” she asked as she grabbed an ancient-looking set of keys and knelt in front of an even older-looking case.

“It sounds familiar,” he replied, though he couldn’t pinpoint anything solid about it—just a name, almost a fairy tale, that had popped up over the years. 

She pulled from the case what looked like a journal in a very fragile state and quickly moved it to an exam table (or whatever it was called—he didn’t spend  _ that  _ much time back here). “According to all the tales I’ve heard, the Dark One is the most powerful dark sorcerer in the world. Not only are they immortal, they lay claim to their power by murdering their predecessor. The story goes back centuries, and continues today.” As she told this, she carefully flipped through the pages of the book, which was written in an old language Killian only vaguely recognized. 

“So you mean to tell me the Dark One is alive and kicking, even now?”

“Well, alive is a loose term. Also, he’s here in the city—and he’s your boss.” She stopped on a page near the center, and despite the aged parchment, the drawing on it bore more than a passing resemblance to Gold. “Not only has he held the title the longest, he was also the first vampire to lay claim to it. His existence is...I hate to say unprecedented, given how long he’s been around, but it’s definitely unique.”

How had he been unaware of this? True, there had always been something sinister about Gold that Killian hadn’t been able to put a finger on, but he just assumed it was because the man was an utter conniving bastard and had centuries to perfect being so. Not that he was also in possession of the darkest magic known to man. Few had any extra sort of magic—Cora was the only other one he knew of, and she wasn’t shy about it. Gold, apparently, was, though.

“How on earth did you find that out?”

“Well, he told me.”

Yeah, something like that would probably come up in pillow talk over the course of 150 years. “And he, what, gave you his notebook of devious schemes?” Killian asked, nodding at the book.

Belle snorted. “Not quite. I tracked this down myself about a hundred years ago.”

“So he doesn’t know about it?”

“Nope,” she confirmed, rather satisfied. “At least, he doesn’t know I have it. It was after our first divorce. See, he’s also spent plenty of time trying to hold onto that power and I, in my ire, decided to see if there was a way for him to lose it. Turns out, there is.”

She carefully flipped another few pages to one with just a few lines of text, in an older English, but easy enough for Killian to read:

_ Only one without creator live _ _   
_ _ Can destroy the dark and survive. _ __   
_ At truest love’s closing hour _ _   
_ __ Will they eliminate the power

“And what exactly does that mean?” he wondered; he’d never encountered prophecies in the real world, but  _ Harry Potter _ certainly seemed to have nailed their ambiguity.

“In simple terms, that only an orphan—someone without living parents—can kill him and end the line of Dark Ones. He did some awful things to orphanages years ago.” Belle shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cool temperature. “But ‘creator’ is a bit nebulous, especially with our kind,” she went on. “For us, it could also mean someone without a living sire. He’s also been known to target those.”

“Aye,” and it was Killian’s turn to shudder; he certainly had that kind of blood on his hands, although he’d usually been given a reason when taking out a hit on Gold’s orders. It was generally hard for anyone to get away from their sire—you couldn’t exactly kill someone when they had the ability to simply tell you to stop. The Nolans were an exception (one he still wanted to talk to Regina about); in fact, the only one he really knew of was… “Emma,” he breathed.

“Emma? Is that the girl whose scent is all over you?” Belle teased.

“Yeah, it is,” he told her, a bit sheepishly, but he had no time to stammer. “She doesn’t have a sire; she killed hers right after he turned her.”

“Impressive. I already approve of her.” Not that he needed Belle’s approval, but other than Robin, she was the closest thing he had to family—and that felt good.

“Even if she’s with Corona?”

“You know I don’t bloody care. Hell, I might like her more, then.”

That made him chuckle, but he needed to know more about the subject at hand. “What’s the rest of it mean, then?”

“Honestly, anything. ‘Closing hour’ is up for even more interpretation—could mean marriage, could mean death.”

“But we’re already dead.”

“I know. So I’ve no real clue. But I can spend some time on it, if you think she’s part of this.”

“It’s worth a shot; whatever it takes to end this feud.” Which gave him another, almost terrifying thought: “Does Cora know this?”

“That I don’t know. But I got the distinct impression it was part of why he turned her.”

“So she couldn’t kill him?”

“I think so. She was after power, whatever she could get; I think that’s why they got together in the first place. She was still mortal, then, and something of a witch, which...you’re already aware of. Turning her was always part of the plan, I gathered, but I think he moved up the timeline on it when he found out about the prophecy.”

“If she did find out, I can see why that might cause a legendary rift.” It would explain a lot of things, really.

“Precisely. And given my own dealings with the man, it’s easy to see why that went south.”

“At least you were already immortal,” he said knowingly.

“True,” she agreed, patting his hand. 

“What about you? Where’s your sire nowadays?”

“No clue. I saw her my last time in Paris but that was 50 years ago. And trust me—if I could kill him, I would have by now.”

They shared a laugh, but Killian was more laughing at the idea that she’d be willing to off him; despite her rage, he knew she still loved him, deep down, even if she didn’t want to be in a relationship anymore.

She put the book away as methodically as she’d taken it out, locked the case, and glanced at the clock. “Well, I’d love to hear more about this Emma, but I suppose it’ll have to wait for another day; my appointment is in 20 minutes and I haven’t pulled anything yet. But maybe we can get some tea again in a couple days?”

“Sounds perfect, my dear—and thank you for your assistance.”

“My pleasure; hope it helps.”

“Anything does at this point.” He gave her a parting peck on the cheek and began to walk away, hoping it was still early enough he could stick to the shadows of the skyscrapers just fine, but then she called out again.

“Oh, and tell Will to call me, would you?”

He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her; surely she was joking. “Will? That wanker? Why?”

She shrugged. “I guess that’s one of the things I didn’t tell you from the last 15 years.”


	5. Tonight, there will be no morning star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself for some feelz, friends.

The skyscraper was a wonderful invention; a marvel of modern engineering. The ability to construct a building all the way into the clouds was one of the many things Gold was glad he had lived long enough to see. He’d been impressed enough when the Equitable Life Building opened in 1870; the balcony he stood on now was at least five times higher in the sky.

It was a good thing his sense of vertigo was long-dead, else he might not be able to spend as much time out here, looking down on the city, as he did. It made him feel like some modern monarch, surveying his kingdom from on high. In reality, it was much more complicated than that, though he’d spent long enough building his empire that it wasn’t far-fetched to call it a dynasty.

He sometimes lamented that his efforts would never be documented in history books; how he’d spent centuries working away right under the noses of the mortals, and they remained oblivious. Maybe he’d make that his next project. Surely there was some suffering, underappreciated writer he could bribe with immortality...ah, but not tonight. There’d be time for that later. First, he had to weather whatever was coming.

He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but something in the air was different tonight; a sense of anticipation was floating on the wind, carried along by the brine of the ocean. He tapped his fingers on the rail of the balcony but was unable to tap down on what it was precisely.

“Hello, Rumple,” a voice he’d never be able to forget said from somewhere above.

Ah, perhaps that was it then; he always had a sense for when she was around. “I thought I smelled betrayal and cheap wine on the breeze. Good evening, Cora.”

The woman dropped from the roof above, landing gracefully on the terrace without even wrinkling her pantsuit. Her style had always edged on sharp, though this seemed surprisingly simple for her; he recalled bigger shoulder pads the last time he’d seen her—what was it, ‘85?

“You seem awfully calm considering what’s about to happen tonight,” she said, ignoring the jibe. Ah well, it was worth a shot; he hadn’t been able to get a rise out of her since 1621, but it didn’t stop him from trying.

He scoffed. “What, a minor scuffle? Two lads having it out over a couple blocks of territory? Seems to me it’s far more personal than anything that would actually mean something.” He’d had to restrain himself from chuckling when Jones told him about the fight; they had no idea.

“Don’t tell me you’ve grown so dense that you don’t realize what this means,” she preened.

He wanted to call her bluff, but if there was one thing he’d learned in over 400 years of dealing with Cora, is that she rarely did. “Enlighten me.”

“It means your underlings are growing restless and tired of this. Mine too. And I’d rather not have this end the way it did last time that happened.” ‘Last time’ being a bloody war; they were able to hide it from the mortals within the confines of the American Revolution but it was a near miss. He’d began rebuilding his ranks immediately; she’d taken her time. And here they were now.

“Chaos has always been my friend, dearie; I can’t say I’d be too upset if it broke out now.”

“While I wouldn't mind it either, I’d be watching your back a bit more closely. Didn’t Jones bring up something...rather interesting earlier?”

Somehow, a chill ran down his unfeeling spine—not just at what Jones had asked about, but the fact that she seemed to know about it as well. “It’s nothing; just a myth. It’s not possible.”

“Please. Think of everything we’ve seen, everything we’ve been through together. Nothing is impossible.”

“I’ve made sure of it.”

“Have you?”

She was always good at poking his buttons. And he was done with it.

“Go. And never come back.”

She had to obey, at least, and he took a small thrill in the way she involuntarily started to climb over the balcony’s railing. “Fine. I just thought I was doing you a favor, but I see it’s not wanted. See you in another 30 years, Rumple.”

She let go and fell back; he didn’t watch to see what happened when she hit the ground. He wouldn’t put it past her to frame him for murder, but she had a different angle this time.

Even though she’d left, that sense of apprehension lingered. Something was indeed coming, something that would change things in his world—but what?

And why did he get the sense Jones was involved?

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

The sun wasn’t even below the horizon before Emma left home, shouting a quick “goodbye and good luck” over her shoulder as she headed out into the evening. If she were in her normal skip-tracing clothes (aka her normal clothes), she’d be running across rooftops to get to Granny’s in no time flat. But no, this was a honeypot, so she had to walk, lest she break the only pair of heels she could actually move in without pain. (That was one thing she’d been dismayed to discover: heels still hurt, even if she recovered faster.)

Still, she powerwalked to Granny’s in record time. “Evening, Emma,” the old wolf called out. “The usual?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, slipping onto her normal stool at the fairly empty counter. It was weird—for a place known to so many, it always seemed to be fairly empty. She had to guess that last night’s meeting was the most crowded it had been in ages. Or maybe that was just part of the magic of the diner.

If she had to guess, the guy at the booth on the other side of the room was a werewolf, based on scent alone; and there was what looked like a fairy bachelorette party at the large booth in the corner. (Not to be confused with fae—she made that mistake once and only once.) Being the only vampire, it was kind of nice to feel like the odd person out for a change. Though she hoped that changed soon.

“Order up!” Granny was suddenly in front of her with a plate of one of the few things on the menu Emma could eat: onion rings. (Onions that had been soaked in blood overnight, mind you, but that was enough for her to be able to stomach them.)

“Thank you so much, Granny,” she effused, and then moaned as she bit into one. “Have I ever told you you’re a genius?”

“It’s been mentioned once or twice. When does lover boy get here?”

As incredible as it was, Emma almost spat out the bite. “Excuse me?”

“Girl, you think I didn’t smell you all over him last night? He covered it up well enough for the others not to notice, but I know better.”

First Zelena, now Granny; they were both going to have to invest in industrial-strength body spray if they were going to keep this under wraps for the time being.

“Calm down; I won’t tell.” But she leaned in across the counter and lowered her voice. “But if you need a place to meet in secret, you know I have rooms upstairs. And I promise not to listen too close.”

“Thanks; I’ll, uh, keep it in mind,” Emma stammered, then hid her embarrassment in another bloody onion ring. Granny, unsurprisingly, cackled and walked away.

It would take more than a voyeuristic wolf to keep her from enjoying fried deliciousness, though, and she savored every bite—being glad she was wearing a red dress in case of drips (Deadpool totally stole that from her, as far as she was concerned)—until there were just two left: the most perfect, juicy, crispiest ones of the bunch. But suddenly, there was only one. And she also wasn’t alone at the counter anymore.

Two seats away, Killian sat with one of her onion rings, taking a slow bite that had her mouth watering in other ways; the way his tongue swiped away the bit of blood that escaped his lips was almost arousing enough to overlook the theft. Almost.

“All those manners and no one taught you to ask nicely?”

“I told you I was a pirate,” he tossed back, taking another bite. “Not a whole lot of ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ going on there.”

“I highly doubt you ever pillaged anything as precious as those, though.” She started to stand up to close the distance between them, but he threw her a warning look out of the corner of his eye that made her pause. 

“We’re in public,” he muttered with his mouth full. Damn, he was right; even if no one from either coven was here now, that could easily change. Which was really annoying because as good as his rum-flavored kisses tasted last night, she liked onion rings even more. And, you know, they probably had some business to discuss—like whatever Zelena had been talking about.

As if on cue, Granny slipped past again, but this time tossing a key (with a rather ostentatious keyring) onto the counter in front of her as she went to address her new customer. There was a room number written on it in Sharpie; Emma memorized the number and slipped the key into her lap as she sat back down. (While also making a mental note to try to find some sexy dresses with pockets.) 

The appeal of her last onion ring waned given that there was something far more delicious-smelling a few feet away, so she scarfed it down, threw some cash on the counter, and then headed to the hallway that led upstairs. Granny definitely did better business in the diner than her inn, and it wasn’t anything special, but it was clean, which Emma couldn’t say about a lot of other places she’d been; her skps really loved the city’s roach motels. (Something told Emma the very nature of her host kept most vermin far from the premises.)

Room 305 was simple, sparse, but had a decent-sized mattress with a sturdy frame, and a clean bathroom. All she needed was the privacy, though.

She’d hardly tossed her purse and the key on the room’s table when a soft knock fell on the door; she wouldn’t have heard it if she was still human. She turned back and, out of habit, glanced through the room’s peephole; she was already getting a whiff of spicy and salty air through the door, but this was still the city and you couldn’t be too careful. But of course it was Killian on the other side, peering up at the door through his crazy long lashes.

She didn’t wait any longer to pull it open, and nearly as soon as she had, he was on top of her, claiming her lips with his and damn, she was right—onion rings tasted as good on his lips as they did on her tongue. (But his tongue tasted even better.)

Somehow, the door was shut behind them and while she wasn’t quite sure who was leading, they pressed together from tip to toe until they fell against the plush—and noisy—mattress, sinking in with a loud squeak of ancient steel.

“Should have known Granny would want to hear something like that,” he chuckled. “Saucy old wolf.”

“Eh, let her listen.” Emma’s own arousal was climbing too fast for her to care, and she pounced on Killian again, wrapping a leg around him and pressing her core against his. He was definitely eager, too, she could tell; it was kind of funny how, out of all the bodily functions that ended when a person transitioned to a vampire, arousal was the one that remained unchanged. She’d had her fair share of flings in her afterlife, but no one had her as keyed up as Killian did with so little effort.

His hand wandered down her side, squeezing her waist and then pulling her rear impossibly closer, before toying with the hem of her dress. “I thought last night’s dress was rather demure for you,” he said between kisses, “but this one is positively sinful.”

“Good. Means work will go fast tonight. Horny bond skips usually fall for it pretty fast.”

“I can see why. I’d tell you to be careful, but I feel like it would be better to warn your prey.”

“Emma Swan always gets her man.”

“What a lovely motto.”

“True so far. And that includes right now.” She sucked a line of kisses down his sharp jaw to the juncture of his neck, drawing a delicious moan from him. “Do you have one?”

“Aye,” he breathed, eyes squinted shut as if trying to regain his thoughts. “A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.”

“And what is it you want?”

He opened his eyes—clear blue even in the dingy yellow light. “You, love. Just you.”

How could she do anything but kiss him within an inch of his afterlife?

Everything that followed was a rush of sensation rather than any coherent thought:

The brush of his beard against her neck, the firmness of his chest beneath her hands (as well as that of his ass), each graze of his fingers against her thigh as they moved her dress up. 

The way his weight settled above her in a way that was both oppressive and comforting, the dance of fingers as they undid his fly (she wasn’t even sure whose all were involved in that), the bob of his cock as it sprang free from denim confines.

How something so hard could feel so soft in her hand—nearly enough to make him come undone on touch alone, but she’d be damned if she let that happen. (Or, well, damned more than she probably already was going to be.) How, for the first time in 15 years, she genuinely felt flushed.

It was all she could do to shove her lace panties aside and guide him home, and oh—she didn’t have the words for what that felt like: to be filled so perfectly it could have brought tears to her eyes (you know, if her tear ducts still worked). 

And then he moved and—holy shit. Her fangs dropped down on their own accord again but she couldn’t be bothered to care this time; hell, all she wanted to do was sink her teeth into him, but she’d have to settle with using a heel to press him back in.

“You feel incredible, darling,” he murmured, slightly lisping—his fangs had dropped too. Maybe she hadn’t learned all there was to know about vampire biology. But that could be dealt with later; right now, she just needed him, and to find the release that was inching closer painfully slowly.

“So do you,” she whispered. “But it feels amazing when you move.”

“As you wish,” he said into her ear, his breath somehow feeling hot on it, and he complied. They started slow, careful presses in and out to find their rhythm, then picking up speed and power. She really hoped the bed frame would hold up ( _ Twilight _ did get that part right) and was sure Granny was getting a good show, but she put any other wonderings into finding his lips again, the play of teeth and tongues and lips coinciding with the meeting of other body parts.

It felt like a slow climb—something she was used to in post-mortem relations—but then the precipice came out of nowhere and she was suddenly falling, gasping into Killian’s mouth as her release carried her away, though she held his shoulders with an iron grip to keep from floating too far.

He wasn’t far behind, she felt, and his fingers would have left imprints on her side were they still capable of being bruised. She felt his release spill inside her as his movements stuttered until he was done, slipping out and falling next to her on his back.

It was probably some long-buried instinct that left them feeling out of breath after sex, but Emma was pretty sure she was sweating. Dead or alive, that had been one of the greatest orgasms of her life—and, honestly, sex was so much easier while undead, what with the whole not needing birth control or being worried about STIs. But this—this was something else.

“I do have to admit, that wasn’t my initial aim in following you up here,” Killian said, pulling her into his side. “But I’m not complaining.”

“I think we’d have some issues if you were. You seemed very enthusiastic about it.”

“And how could I not be?” he smirked, turning to look at her. But then his smile fell, and he pressed his thumb against her lips; it came back red. “Apologies, love; did I hurt you?”

She licked her lips and tasted the copper. “No; I hadn’t even noticed. It might have been self-inflicted,” she said, pressing her tongue against her own still-exposed canines. “I wish I knew why that kept happening.”

“It’s just the effect I have on you.”

“Yeah, it is.” Her normal MO when flirting was to refute a statement like that, but...why lie? “I’ve been waiting to see you all day.”

“I can tell.” She lightly slapped his shoulder, and he chuckled at the reaction. “I felt the same way; I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”

“A day is a lot less than 15 years. It dragged but I managed. Thank you for not murdering my dad last night.”

“That wouldn’t have been very gentlemanly. And if anyone was going to do any assassination last night, it would have been Graham killing me.”

Ugh, of course he would; she groaned. “Sorry; he can’t take a hint. You make out with a guy once twelve years ago and apparently he keeps a flame lit for the next decade.”

“I can hardly blame him, especially knowing how you kiss.” His thumb again traced her lips, which had healed by now, and god, the reverence in that gentle gesture was nearly as overwhelming as her orgasm. But then his brow furrowed. “You don’t suppose true love’s kiss is real, do you?”

Emma blinked, confused; where had that come from? “No, probably not, though I wouldn't dare say that around my mom—she most likely believes in it. Why?”

“Granny mentioned something to me last night after the meeting, and I did some research today...were you also aware the prophecies were real?”

“No, I was not.” Though surprised, she listened as Killian told her about Gold and his powers—actual, honest-to-god, dark magical powers—and the prophecy that spelled his end. She wasn’t too surprised that it was kept under wraps, especially given what she’d learned from Zelena last night (which Killian somehow did not know, which made her feel like less of a newb for once).

But most shocking was the fact that Kililan thought she was the one the prophecy talked about. “Fuck.”

“That’s a succinct way of putting it.”

“I don’t word good, so the fewer, the better.” Quips aside, she was having a hard time wrapping her head around the whole thing. “So I might be the only person that can kill Gold and end this whole feud? That’s….a lot.”

“I know, but I want you to know it’s not a burden you carry alone.”

And then the other half hit her: true love. Did that mean…? “So...that’s us? That means we’re—”

“Maybe,” he said softly, probably sensing her panic. She couldn’t deny that she had deep feelings for Killian, but true love? That was...that was her parents, that was fairy tales; that didn’t happen to her.

“I don’t want all that,” she whispered. “I just want to be with you; I don’t want to be responsible for ending some centuries-long feud.” 

“I know, love,” he murmured, and pulled her close; she was nestled into the crook of his neck and other than her dad’s patented hugs, she’s never felt so safe. “It’s not for certain; just a theory, and you’re under no obligation to act on it. But if you choose to, know that I’m here beside you each step of the way.”

“Or we can just run off; go hide in the woods upstate or something. Or Maine—or even Canada; they’d never find us there.”

“Not likely, no,” he chuckled; she could feel the vibration of it through his collarbone onto her cheek. “Maybe a cottage by the seaside somewhere? Some remote little beach?”

“Mm, sounds perfect.” Her parents would understand, right? And even if they didn’t….well, they could deal. “Let’s just do that right now. Let me go catch this skip, and then I’ll pack my bags and we can go.”

She felt more than saw his smile. “As much as I’d love that, I’m afraid I have some other things to attend to this evening.”

Oh right, the fight—how could she forget? “I guess that brawl is kind of pointless then, isn’t it?”

“Aye; perhaps why Gold seemed unperturbed by the idea.”

“Then what’s the point in letting it happen? Do you think you can stop it?” It was probably because she was fairly young and hadn’t been fully indoctrinated to the cause, but the thought of an inconsequential fight that had even a slight chance of becoming something worse—because, with the way tensions ran, that was alway a possibility—made her really nervous.

“I’ll certainly try; I agree, I don’t like the thought of unnecessary fighting, either.” And he’d probably seen more than his fair share of it. “Whatever happens, I’ll come find you when it’s all done—I promise.”

“I will hunt you down if you don’t.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less.”

She kissed him again, slower and sweeter than before. “Ugh, I don’t want to go, but this skip will pay rent for a month.”

“I don’t want you to go, but it’d be ungentlemanly to make you late for work.”

“Do you always have to be one?”

“Yes.” 

She sighed. “Fine.”

Thankfully, they had enough time for one more make out, and she was already making a mental note to hit a drug store later for some perfume; his scent was probably embedded in her pores at this point. (She also mentioned he might want to do the same; he said he’d stop by his apartment before heading to the fight.)

Eventually, they righted themselves and made their way out of the room, pausing for one last, slow kiss in the hallway after locking the door.

“Not a moment will go by I don’t think of you,” Killian murmured, but he may as well have shouted it for as hard as it hit her. 

“Good,” she replied, hoping he heard how much she meant the same thing back.

With one final peck, she dashed out the back door and into the night, off to whatever seedy bar she was finding the scumbag-of-the-week. Hopefully, this would be a quick one—she already missed Killian.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

For a moment after Emma left, Killian stood stock still in the hallway, Emma’s scent lingering around him as his fingers traced the feel of her lips on his. That was not at all how he anticipated this encounter to go—he was fairly old fashioned in some senses, especially when it came to someone he wanted to court properly—but any complaint had died before he could give it voice. In a way, they were just making up for lost time, he supposed. 

And he would see to it that they weren’t limited in that regard ahead. 

Granny gave a lascivious wink when he placed the key on the counter in the diner, and he was sure she’d have more to say were the evening crowd (as it were) not filling up the place. He used that to his advantage and took his leave, even though he still had a few hours until he was due anywhere.

He spent a bit of time at the docks, mulling over how they’d changed over the years (and eyeing the ships for sale; he’d had to sell his last one and was in the market for something new, especially if a quick getaway might be needed at some point), before keeping his promise to Emma and stopping at his apartment for some fresh cologne to cover her scent. How no one had noticed it the night before was a mild miracle, but adrenaline would be running strong tonight and senses would be on high alert.

(He so loathed to erase the evidence of her on his person, though.)

There was still time to kill, so he walked slowly (well, for him) in the direction of the lot, even patiently waiting for crossing lights to indicate the all clear rather than dart out early like most New Yorkers did. He should probably find a snack, since he didn’t get to finish his drink at Granny’s; a hunger-like pang was stirring within, but there wasn’t enough time for that now.

The lot was mostly empty when he arrived, and the street oddly quiet; at least that boded well for this rendezvous—and perhaps he’d be able to maintain the peace.

As he got closer, a pinprick of light burned out of the darkness; it took but a millisecond for his eyes to adjust and see that Robin was waiting, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers.

“You’ll smoke yourself into an early grave,” Killian scolded lightly, as he’d done many times before.

“Tis a pity I never got the chance, then, aye?” Robin tossed back. He and his wife had been emigrating to America in the mid-1800s when scarlet fever broke out on their ship; his wife and unborn child didn’t make it, but somehow, Gold had been aboard, and turned Robin before the disease claimed him as well. 

In life, Robin had never had the money to maintain a tobacco habit, but once he found himself with unlimited time—and lungs that would never damage—he’d taken it up with gusto. 

“Just don’t let me catch you vaporizing, or whatever it is,” Killian teased.

“Vaping, and no, never.”

They waited in companionable silence as Robin finished his cigarette and started on another. That caught Killian’s interest; while smoking might be a favored hobby for Robin, he’d never been known to indulge in chain smoking—unless he was nervous.

Footsteps on the other end of the lot drew their attention; David, Graham, and the others (though thankfully not Zelena) stepped from the shadows. At the sight, the twisting in his gut coiled again, and an ancient feeling washed over him: trepidation. He hadn’t felt that since...god, not since Yorktown.

And that clearly ended well. (He thought to himself, sarcastically.)

He couldn’t pinpoint a reason for his sense of dread; it was certainly not the first time the two teams had gone head-to-head (even if he hoped it might be the last). He couldn’t count the number of lives lost to the feud over the centuries—thankfully few innocent ones, but the number of siblings-in-arms sacrificed to the cause was far too high.

He’d never been nervous before any of those encounters. So why was this one giving him anxiety?

(Because so much was riding on this. Because he didn’t want to let Emma down.)

Will and Henry appeared out of nowhere, suddenly behind them, and if it was possible for the scene to get even more silent, it did. The men were lined up shoulder to shoulder in two opposing lines; it was like the standoff in a terrible spaghetti western, but without the benefit of a Morricone score.

The tension was palpable as they all stood stone-still, waiting for the other side to make any sort of move. It would have been the perfect time for Killian to intervene—convince them all to back down—but he was too worried that even so much as a pin drop would make waves.

In the end, it turned out to be the drop of cigarette ash that sent things into motion; Robin’s burnt end had barely hit the ground before he and Graham were on top of each other, snarling and slashing in the middle of the carpark.

An outsider would have thought it was some strange dance, or possibly performance art, with the way they clamored at each other but never seemed to land any blows. But Killian’s keen eyes could see each dodge of a body from a clawing limb, their extended fangs thirsting for blood, and the way Graham curled inward when Robin landed a first, firm punch on the other man’s stomach; that finally drew Killian from his stupor.

“No; that’s enough!” he shouted, then put himself between them. “We don’t need to do this.”

Despite his advanced age, he didn’t have as much an advantage over the two of them as he thought he did; they simply jumped away and continued. Before he could step in again, a firm hand had him by the shoulder.

“Hey, this was your idea; what kind of power grab is this?” David growled; his other hand was curled into a fist. Should have known he’d be itching for a fight, too.

“You really think this will solve anything?” Killian spat. “Our bosses don’t care; this goes way beyond us, mate.”

Killian threw him off and made for the other two, who were now wrapped in what he guessed was some sort of wrestling move, arms gripped on the other’s shoulders. But before he got all the way there, David jumped in front of him.

“I’m not your mate.” David was glaring and trying to use his height advantage to intimidate, but Killian wouldn’t dare hurt the father of his love, even if he was his opponent at the moment.

“Fine, but I’m not your enemy either; you don’t even know what you’re fighting for.”

“You think I don’t know?” Now he was moving toward Killian—though, over his shoulder, he could see that Robin had landed another punch, this time on Graham’s chest. “Aurum turned me and my wife against our will. Aurum made our daughter grow up without her parents. You just take and take, and do whatever you want without facing the consequences. And now, what—you think you can get out of them because you might lose?” The irony in that statement, of course, being that Robin had now hit Graham in the jaw, who had paused to cradle his sore chin.

“But you have her now; doesn’t that count for anything?” Killian pleaded.

He realized as soon as he said it that he’d made a grave error. David stopped, taken aback. “How did you know that?” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Killian didn’t take the time to answer; with any luck, that would be explained later. He jumped on the opportunity presented and dashed toward Robin and Graham again, pushing Robin away as he was about to make what would likely be the winning blow. 

“Bloody hell, mate,” Robin sputtered, and Killian was about to reply, except he was suddenly face down on the pavement after something that felt vaguely like a foot hit him in the back.

“What game are you playing, Jones?” David yelled from above, giving Killian a good idea of who had attacked him. He was back on his feet in an instant, and so were the rest of the gangs, all around them. Fuck; so much for not bringing anyone else in.

It was Robin’s turn to step in front of Killian. “Are you trying to start a rumble, Nolan?”

“I didn’t start anything, but I will if that’s what you want.” Next to him, Graham pulled a suspiciously long, slender object from a pocket, and the subsequent swish of the weapon confirmed: he had a switchblade.

And a second later, Robin had pulled his own out. 

They were immediately back on top of each other, with the others egging them on— “Right in the heart, Robin!” “Go for the neck, Graham!”

Killian’s lone attempt to pull Graham back (he was the closest to him at the time) ended with him also being pulled away by Jefferson; he and David restrained Killian and while he might have been able to shake off one of them, the two of them together were too much. He had to watch helplessly as the two in the center continued to swipe at each other, blades glinting dangerously in the murky streetlights.

It was still only until first blood, right? And that was bound to happen faster now that sharp edges were involved.

Almost in slow motion, he watched as the tip of Robin’s blade sliced at Graham’s cheek, leaving behind a thin line of red. He sighed in relief, little as he needed that breath; that was it—it was done.

David and Jefferson loosened their grip on him and he shook them off, not withholding a glare in David’s direction. He then turned to face Robin, to get him—all of them—out of there as quickly as possible, but his voice got stuck in his throat.

While Robin had barely relaxed, let down his guard for the briefest of seconds, Graham lunged at him and sank his blade into Robin’s chest.

Into Robin’s heart.

The world stood still for a moment as everyone stared in shock, and the reality of what just happened washed over Killian. It wasn’t until Graham jerked the blade free, dripping blood—Robin’s blood—on the ground, that he was jolted enough from his stupor to move.

“No!” Killian screamed, then ran to his friend just as he collapsed. “No, no, no,” he muttered, pressing a hand against Robin’s wound, but there was no use for it—a vampire was just as susceptible to that kind of stabbing as a mortal was.

Robin was gasping for air, useless as it was, as his lifeblood spilled out onto the asphalt below him, quite literally draining the life from him; little would be left in a few moments but ash and memories. If Killian could cry, he’d have been sobbing.

“Tell—tell ‘gina—” Robin stammered, but was quickly losing energy.

He knew what he was asking, anyways. “I’ll tell Regina,” he promised.

With his last bit of strength, Robin wrapped his hand around Killian’s and squeezed, smiling, as death finally came for him. It was fast—too fast, but wounds like that always led to a quick death. It wasn’t the first time Killian had held another person as they disintegrated in his hold, but it was by far the most painful. And the most unwarranted.

The dust that had been Robin settled in the air around him, landing on his hand where blood was still fresh. In more ways than one, Killian began to see red.

Without thinking, he grabbed Robin’s abandoned switchblade and in one swift moment, stood and shoved it at Graham, instinctively finding his most vulnerable spot.

Graham stammered back, pulling the weapon out—and hastening his own demise. All too quickly, he collapsed on his knees, his team gathering around him, and a moment later, he too was ash.

A sharp wind off the ocean blew Graham’s remains toward Killian, bringing with them the realization of what he had done:

He’d killed a member of Emma’s coven—practically her family.

And he’d done nothing to end the feud; if anything, he escalated it.

Bloody fuck, what had he done?

And what could he do now?

He stared in horror at the blood around him, trying to formulate a plan, when Will blessedly broke the fragile silence.

“Rozzers!” he shouted, then began to run, only to see no one else move. “Cops?” he translated into American English, which got the reaction he was looking for; everyone hopped to their feet and ran. No one wanted to explain this scene to mortal police.

Everyone but Killian. He wondered if his feet had become concrete, he was so rooted in place. It wasn’t until Will was in his face, urging him to move, that he did.

“Do you have somewhere to lay low? I don’t think Coroza is gonna let this one go,” he asked as they dashed from the lot.

His thoughts immediately turned to Emma, suicidal as that likely was. Could he drag her into this? Or would that be the least likely place they’d look?

He’d have to risk it. “Aye, I do.”

“Alright, then go; the less I know the better. Good luck, mate,” Will told him, then ran in another direction; belatedly, Killian realized, headed toward where Belle lived. 

There was no time to dwell on that, though, and he changed course to head uptown. He had no idea what lay ahead, but he knew one thing: whatever it was, he wanted Emma at his side.

(Assuming, that is, she forgave him.)


End file.
